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A    NOVEL. 


BY   THE    AUTHOR    OF 


PELHAM,"  "RIENZI,"  "EUGENE    ARAM,'    &c 


IN     TWO     VOLUMES. 


VOL.  I. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED    BY    HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 

NO.    82    CLIFF-STREET 

1841 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 


BOOK   I. 

0iod)  in  mctneS  ieUni  Scn^c 
2Bat  id)  unli  id)  tvanbett'  aui, 

Unb  i>iv  Sugcnl)  ftoJ)c  SSn^e 
fiitp  i(6  in  t»c^  J8atcr6  ^au^." 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 

"  Now  Tests  our  vicar.    They  who  knew  him  best, 
Proclaim  his  hfe  to  have  been  entirely  rest  ; 
Nor  one  so  old  has  left  this  world  of  sin, 
More  like  the  being  that  he  entered  in." — Crabbe. 

In  one  of  the  Welsh  counties  is  a  small  village  called 

A .     II  is  somewhat  removed  from  the  high-road, 

and  is,  therefore,  but  little  known  to  those  luxurious  am- 
ateurs of  the  picturesque  who  view  Nature  through  the 
windows  of  a  carriage  and  four.  Nor,  indeed,  is  there 
anything,  whether  of  scenery  or  association,  in  the  place 
itself,  sufficient  to  allure  the  more  sturdy  enthusiast  from 
the  beaten  tracks  which  tourists  and  guide-books  pre- 
scribe to  those  who  search  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
amid  the  mountain  homes  of  the  ancient  Britons.  Still, 
on  the  whole,  the  village  is  not  without  its  attractions. 
It  is  placed  in  a  small  valley,  through  which  winds  and 
leaps,  down  many  a  rocky  fall,  a  clear,  babbling,  noisy 
rivulet,  that  affords  excellent  sport  to  the  brethren  of 
the  angle.  Thither,  accordingly,  in  the  summer  season, 
occasionally  resort  the  Waltons  of  the  neighbourhood 
— young  farmers,  retired  traders,  with  now  and  then  a 
stray  artist,  or  a  roving  student  from  one  of  the  Univer- 
sities.    Hence  the   solitary  hostelry  of  A ,  being 

somewhat  more  frequented,  is  also  more  clean  and  com- 
fortable than  could  be  reasonably  anticipated  from  the 
msignificance  and  remoteness  of  the  village. 

At  the  time  in  which  my  narrative  opens,  the  village 


10  INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER 

boasted  a  sociable,  agreeable,  careless,  half-starved  par- 
son, who  never  failed  to  introduce  himself  to  any  of  the 
anglers  who,  during  the  summer  months,  passed  a  day 
or  two  in  the  little  valley.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Caleb 
Price  had  been  educated  at  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
where  he  had  contrived,  in  three  years,  to  run  through 
a  little  fortune  of  jC3500,  without  gaining  in  return  any 
more  valuable  mental  acquisitions  than  those  of  making 
the  most  admirable  milk-punch,  and  becoming  the  most 
redoubted  boxer  in  his  college  ;  or  any  more  desirable 
reputation  than  that  of  being  one  of  the  best-natured, 
rattling,  open-hearted  companions  whom  you  could  de- 
sire by  your  side  in  a  tandem  to  Newmarket  or  in  a  row  , 
with  the  bargemen.  He  had  not  failed,  by  the  help  of 
these  gifts  and  accomplishments,  to  find  favour,  while 
his  money  lasted,  with  the  young  aristocracy  of  the 
"  Gentle  Mother."  And,  though  the  very  reverse  of  an 
ambitious  or  calculating  man,  he  had  certainly  nourished 
the  belief  that  some  one  of  the  hats  or  tinsel  gowns — 
i.e.,  young  lords  or  fellow-commoners,  with  whom  he 
was  on  such  excellent  terms,  and  who  supped  with  him 
so  often — would  do  something  for  him  in  the  way  of  a 
living.  But  it  so  happened  that  when  Mr.  Caleb  Price 
had,  with  a  little  difficulty,  scrambled  through  his  degree, 
and  found  himself  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  and  at  the  end  of 
his  finances,  his  grand  acquaintances  parted  from  him  to 
their  various  posts  in  the  State-Militant  of  Life.  And, 
Avith  the  exception  of  one,  joyous  and  reckless  as  him- 
self, Mr.  Caleb  Price  found  that,  when  money  makes 
itself  wings,  it  flies  away  with  our  friends.  As  poor 
Price  had  earned  no  academical  distinction,  so  he  could 
expect  no  advancement  from  his  college — no  fellowship 
— no  tutorship  leading  hereafter  to  livings,  stalls,  and 
deaneries.  Poverty  began  already  to  stare  him  in  the 
face,  when  the  only  friend  who,  having  shared  his  pros- 
perity, remained  true  to  his  adverse  fate — a  friend,  for- 
tunately for  him,  of  high  connexions  and  brilliant  pros- 
pects— succeeded  in  obtaining  for  him  the  humble  living 
of  A .  To  this  primitive  spot  the  once  jovial  roist- 
er cheerfully  retired — contrived  to  live  contented  upon 
an  income  somewhat  less  than  he  had  formerly  given  to 
his  groom — preached  very  short  sermons  to  a  very 
scanty  and  ignorant  congregation,  some  of  wliom  only 
understood  Welsh — did  good  to  the  poor  and  sick  in  his 
own  careless,  slovenly  way — and,  uneheered  or  unvexed 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER.  ll 

by  wife  and  children,  he  rose  in  summer  with  the  lark, 
and  in  winter  went  to  bed  at  nine  precisely,  to  save 
coals  and  candies.  For  the  rest,  he  was  the  most  skil- 
ful angler  in  the  whole  county  ;  and  so  willing  to  com- 
municate the  results  of  his  experience  as  to  the  most 
taking  colour  of  the  flies  and  the  most  favoured  haunts 
of  the  trout,  thai  he  had  given  especial  orders  at  the  inn, 
that  whenever  any  strange  gentleman  came  to  fish,  Mr. 
Caleb  Price  should  be  immediately  sent  for.  In  this,  to 
be  sure,  our  worthy  pastor  had  his  usual  recompense. 
First,  if  the  stranger  were  tolerably  liberal,  Mr.  Price  was 
asked  to  dinner  at  the  inn  ;  and,  secondly,  if  this  failed, 
from  the  poverty  or  churlishness  of  the  obliged  party, 
Mr.  Price  still  had  an  opportunity  to  hear  the  last  news 
—to  talk  about  the  Great  World — in  a  word,  to  exchange 
ideas,  and  perhaps  to  get  an  old  newspaper  or  an  odd 
number  of  a  magazine. 

Now  it  so  happened  that,  one  afternoon  in  October, 
when  the  periodical  excursions  of  the  anglers,  becoming 
rarer  and  more  rare,  had  altogether  ceased,  Mr.  Caleb 
Price  was  summoned  from  his  parlour,  in  which  he  had 
been  employed  in  the  fabrication  of  a  net  for  his  cab- 
bages, by  a  little  white-headed  boy,  who  came  to  say 
there  was  a  gentleman  at  the  inn  who  wished  immedi- 
ately to  see  him  :  a  strange  gentleman,  who  had  never 
been  there  before. 

Mr.  Price  threw  down  his  net,  seized  his  hat,  and  in 
less  than  five  minutes  he  was  in  the  best  room  of  the 
little  iini. 

The  person  there  awaiting  him  was  a  man  who,  though 
plainly  clad  in  a  velveteen  shooting-jacket,  had  an  air  and 
mien  greatly  above  those  common  to  the  pedestrian  visit- 
ers of  A .     He  was  tall,  and  of  one  of  those  athletic 

forms  in  which  vigour  ih  youth  is  too  often  purchased  by 
corpulence  in  age.  At  this  period,  however,  in  the  full 
prime  of  manhood,  the  ample  chest  and  sinewy  limbs, 
seen  to  full  advantage  in  their  simple  and  manly  dress, 
could  not  fail  to  excite  that  popular  admiration  which 
is  always  given  to  strength  in  the  one  sex  as  to  delicacy 
ill  the  other.  The  stranger  was  walking  impatiently  to  • 
and  fro  the  small  apartment  when  Mr.  Price  entered  ; 
and  then,  turning  to  the  clergyman  a  countenance  hand- 
some and  striking,  but  yet  more  prepossessing  from  its 
expression  of  frankness  than  from  the  regularity  of  its 
features,  he  stopped  short,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said, 


12  INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 

with  a  gay  laugh,  as  he  glanced  over  the  parson's  thread- 
bare and  slovenly  costume,  "My  poor  Caleb!  what  a 
metamorphosis !    I  should  not  have  known  you  again !" 

"  What !  you !  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  fellow  1  How 
glad  I  am  to  see  you !  What  on  earth  can  bring  you  to 
such  a  place  ?  No !  not  a  soul  would  believe  me  if  I 
said  I  had  seen  you  in  this  miserable  hole." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  reason  why  I  am  here.  Sit 
down,  Caleb,  and  we'll  talk  over  matters  as  soon  as  our 
landlord  has  brought  up  the  materials  for — " 

"  The  milk-punch,"  interrupted  Mr.  Price,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "Ah,  that  will  bring  us  back  to  old  times  in- 
deed !" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  punch  was  prepared,  and,  after 
two  or  three  preparatory  glasses,  the  stranger  thus  com- 
menced : 

"  My  dear  Caleb,  I  am  in  want  of  your  assistance, 
and,  above  all,  of  your  secrecy." 

"  I  promise  you  both  beforehand.  It  will  make  me 
happy  Xhe  rest  of  my  life  to  think  I  have  served  my  pa- 
tron— my  benefactor — the  only  friend  I  possess." 

"  Tush,  man  !  don't  talk  of  that :  we  shall  do  better 
for  you  one  of  these  days.  But  now  to  the  point :  I 
have  come  here  to  be  married — married,  old  boy  ! — mar- 
ried !" 

And  the  stranger  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
chuckled  with  the  glee  of  a  schoolboy. 

"  Humph!"  said  the  parson,  gravely.  "  It  is  a  serious 
thing  to  do,  and  a  very  odd  place  to  come  to." 

"  I  admit  both  propositions  :  this  punch  is  superb.  To 
proceed.  You  know  that  my  uncle's  immense  fortune 
is  at  his  own  disposal ;  if  I  disobliged  him,  he  would  be 
capable  of  leaving  all  to  my  brother.  I  should  disoblige 
him  irrevocably  if  he  knew  that  I  had  married  a  trades- 
man's daughter.  I  am  going  to  marry  a  tradesman's 
daughter— a  girl  in  a  million !  The  ceremony  must  be 
as  secret  as  possible.  And  in  this  church,  with  you  for 
the  priest,  I  do  not  see  a  chance  of  discovery." 

"  Do  you  marry  by  license  T' 

"  No  ;  my  intended  is  not  of  age  ;  and  we  keep  the  se- 
cret even  from  her  father.  In  this  village  you  will  mum- 
ble over  the  bans  without  one  of  your  congregation  ever 
taking  heed  of  the  name.  1  shall  stay  here  a  month  for 
the  purpose.  She  is  in  London,  on  a  visit  to  a  relation 
in  the  city.    The  bans  on  her  side  will  be  published  with 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER.  13 

equal  privacy  in  a  bttle  church  near  the  Tower,  where 
my  name  will  be  no  less  unknown  than  here.  Oh,  I've 
contrived  it  famously!" 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  consider  what  you  risk." 

"  I  have  considered  all,  and  find  every  chance  in  my 
favour.  The  bride  will  arrive  here  on  the  day  of  our 
wedding  :  my  servant  will  be  one  witness  ;  some  stupid 
old  Welshman,  as  antediluvian  as  possible — I  leave  it 
to  you  to  select  him— shall  be  the  other.  My  servant 
1  shall  dispose  of,  and  the  rest  I  can  depend  on." 

"  But—" 

"  I  detest  buts  ;  if  I  had  to  make  a  language,  I  would 
not  admit  such  a  word  in  it.  And  now,  before  I  run  on 
upon  Catharine,  a  subject  quite  inexhaustible,  tell  me, 
my  dear  friend,  something  about  yourself." 


Somewhat  more  than  a  month  had  elapsed  since  the 
arrival  of  the  stranger  at  the  village  inn.  He  had  chan- 
ged his  quarters  for  the  Parsonage  ;  went  out  but  little, 
and  then  chiefly  on  foot-excursions  among  the  seques- 
tered hills  in  the  neighbourhood  :  he  was,  therefore,  but 
partially  known  by  sight  even  in  the  village  ;  and  the 
visit  of  some  old  college  friend  to  the  minister,  though 
indeed  it  had  never  chanced  before,  was  not,  in  itself,  so 
remarkable  an  event  as  to  excite  any  particular  observa- 
tion. The  bans  had  been  duly,  and  half  inaudibly,  hur- 
ried over,  after  the  service  was  concluded,  and  while  the 
scanty  congregation  were  dispersing  down  the  little  aisle 
of  the  church,  when  one  morning  a  chaise  and  pair  ar- 
rived at  the  Parsonage.  A  servant  out  of  livery  leaped 
from  the  box.  The  stranger  opened  the  door  of  the 
chaise,  and,  uttering  a  joyous  exclamation,  gave  his  arm 
to  a  ladjs  who,  trembling  and  agitated,  could  scarcely, 
even  with  that  stalwart  support,  descend  the  steps. 
"  Ah !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  choked  with  tears,  when  they 
found  themselves  alone  in  the  little  parlour,  "  ah !  if  you 
knew  how  I  have  suffered !" 

How  is  it  that  certain  words,  and  those  the  home- 
liest— which  the  hand  writes  and  the  eye  reads  as  trite 
and  commonplace  expressions — when  spolcen,  convey  so 
much — so  many  meanings  complicated  and  refined ! 
"Ah  !  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered !" 

When  the  lover  heard  these  words,  his  gay  counte- 
nance fell — he  drew  back — his  conscience  smote  him  : 

Vol..  I.— B 


14  INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 

in  that  complaint  was  the  whole  history  of  a  clandestine 
love — not  for  both  the  parties,  but  for  the  woman — the 
painful  secrecy — the  remorsefuldeceit— the  shame — the 
fear — the  sacrifice.  She  who  uttered  those  words  was 
scarcely  sixteen.  It  is  an  early  age  to  leave  childhood 
behind  for  ever ! 

"  My  own  love !  you  have  suffered  indeed ;  but  it  is 
over  now." 

*'  Over !  And  what  will  they  say  of  me — what  will 
they  think  of  me  at  home  ?    Over !     Ah !" 

"  It  is  but  for  a  short  time ;  in  the  course  of  Nature, 
my  uncle  cannot  live  long :  all  then  will  be  explained. 
Our  marriage  once  made  public,  all  connected  with  you 
will  be  proud  to  own  you.  You  will  have  wealth — star 
tion — a  name  among  the  first  in  the  gentry  of  England. 
But,  above  all,  you  will  have  the  happiness  to  think  that 
your  forbearance  for  a  time  has  saved  me,  and,  it  may 
be,  our  children,  sweet  one  !  from  poverty  and — " 

"  It  is  enough,"  interrupted  the  girl ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  countenance  became  serene  and  elevated, 
'*  It  is  for  you — for  your  sake.  I  know  what  you  haz- 
ard :  how  much  I  must  owe  you !  Forgive  me  ;  this  i$ 
the  last  murmur  you  shall  ever  hear  from  these  hps." 

An  hour  after  those  words  were  spoken  the  marriage 
ceremony  was  concluded. 

"  Caleb,"  said  the  bridegroom,  drawing  the  clergyman 
aside  as  they  were  about  to  re-enter  the  house,  "  you 
will  keep  your  promise,  I  know  ;  and  you  think  I  may 
depend  implicitly  upon  the  good  faith  of  the  witness  you 
have  selected  ?" 

"  Upon  his  good  faith  1^— no,"  said  Caleb,  smihng ; 
*'  but  upon  his  deafness,  his  ignorance,  and  his  age.  My 
poor  old  clerk  !  he  will  have  forgotten  all  about  it  before 
this  day  three  months.  Now  1  have  seen  your  lady,  1 
no  longer  wonder  that  you  incur  so  great  a  risk.  I  never 
beheld  so  lovely  a  countenance.  You  will  be  happy !" 
And  the  village  priest  sighed,  and  thought  of  the  coming 
winter  and  his  own  lonely  hearth. 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  have  only  seen  her  beauty  :  it 
is  her  least  charm.  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have 
made  love— and  this  is  the  only  woman  that  I  have  ever 
really  loved.  Caleb,  there  is  an  excellent  living  that 
adjoins  my  uncle's  liouse.  The  rector  is  old  ;  when  the 
house  is  mine,  you  will  not  be  long  without  the  living. 
We  shall  be  neighbours,  Caleb,  and  then  you  sh^U  try 


iNtRODUCTORY   CHAPTER.  15 

and  find  a  bride  for  yourself.  Smith" — and  the  bride- 
groom turned  to  the  servant  who  had  accompanied  his 
wife,  and  served  as  a  second  witness  to  the  marriage — 
"  tell  the  postboy  to  put-to  tlie  horses  immediately." 

"  Yes,  sir.     May  1  speak  a  word  with  you  V 

"  Well,  what  V 

"  Your  unclcj  sir,  sent  for  me  to  come  to  him  the  day 
before  we  left  town." 

"Aha!  indeed!" 

"  And  I  could  just  pick  up  among  his  servants  that  he 
had  some  suspicion — at  least,  that  he  had  been  making 
inquiries — and  seemed  very  cross,  sir." 

"  You  went  to  him  ]" 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  afraid.  He  has  such  a  way  with  him ! 
Whenever  his  eye  is  fixed  on  mine,  I  always  feel  as  if 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  a  lie  ;  and — and — in  short,  I 
thought  it  was  best  not  to  go." 

"  You  did  right.  Confound  this  fellow !"  muttered  the 
bridegroom,  turning  away ;  "  he  is  honest,  and  loves 
me ;  yet,  if  my  uncle  sees  him,  he  is  clumsy  enough 
to  betray  all.  Well,  I  always  meant  to  get  him  out  of 
the  way — the  sooner  the  better.     Smith !" 

"  Yes,  sir !" 

"  You  have  often  said  that  you  should  like,  if  you  had 
some  capital,  to  settle  in  Australia — your  father  is  an 
excellent  farmer — you  are  above  the  situation  you  hold 
With  me — you  are  well-educated,  and  have  some  knowl- 
edge of  agriculture— you  can  scarcely  fail  to  make  a 
fortune  as  a  settler  ;  and,  if  you  are  of  the  same  mind 
still,  why,  look  you,  I  have  just  iClOOO  at  my  banker's: 
you  shall  have  half  if  you  like  to  sail  by  the  first  packet." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  generous," 

"  Nonsense — no  thanks — I  am  more  prudent  than  gen- 
erous ;  for  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  all  up  with  me  if 
my  uncle  gets  hold  of  you.  I  dread  my  prying  brother, 
too ;  in  fact,  the  obligation  is  on  my  side  :  only  stay 
abroad  till  I  am  a  rich  man  and  my  marriage  made  pub- 
lic, and  then  you  may  ask  of  me  what  you  will.  It's 
agreed,  then — order  the  horses — we'll  go  round  by  Liv- 
erpool, and  learn  about  the  vessels.  By-the-way,  my 
good  fellow,  I  hope  you  see  nothing  now  of  that  good- 
for-nothing  brother  of  yours  1" 

"  No,  indeed,  sir.  It's  a  thousand  pities  he  has  turned 
out  so  ill,  for  he  was  the  cleverest  of  the  family,  and 
could  always  twist  me  round  his  little  finger." 


16  INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 

"  That's  the  very  reason  I  mentioned  him.  If  he 
learned  our  secret,  he  would  take  it  to  an  excellent  mar- 
ket.    Where  is  hel" 

"  Hiding,  I  suspect,  sir." 

"  Well,  we  shall  put  the  sea  between  you  :  so  now 
all's  safe." 

Caleb  stood  by  the  porch  of  his  house  as  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  entered  their  humble  vehicle.  Though 
then  November,  the  day  was  exquisitely  mild  and  calm, 
the  sky  without  a  cloud,  and  even  the  leafless  trees 
seemed  to  smile  beneath  the  cheerful  sun.  And  the 
young  bride  wept  no  more  ;  she  was  with  him  she  loved 
— she  was  his  for  ever.  She  forgot  the  rest.  The  hope 
— the  heart  of  sixteen — spoke  brightly  out  through  the 
blushes  that  mantled  over  her  fair  cheeks.  The  bride- 
groom's frank  and  manly  countenance  was  radiant  with 
joy.  As  he  waved  his  hand  to  Caleb  from  the  window, 
the  postboy  cracked  his  whip,  the  servant  settled  him- 
self on  the  dickey,  the  horses  started  off  in  a  brisk  trot 
—the  clergyman  was  left  alone  ! 

To  be  married  is  certainly  an  event  in  life  ;  to  marry 
other  people  is,  for  a  priest,  a  very  ordinary  occurrence ; 
and  yet,  from  that  day,  a  great  change  began  to  operate 
in  the  spirits  and  the  habits  of  Caleb  Price.  Have  you 
ever,  my  gentle  reader,  buried  yourself  for  some  time 
quietly  in  the  lazy  ease  of  a  dull  country  life  ]  Have 
you  ever  become  gradually  accustomed  to  its  monotony 
and  inured  to  its  solitude ;  and,  just  at  the  time  when 
you  have  half  forgotten  the  great  world — that  mare  mag- 
num that  frets  and  roars  in  the  distance — have  you  ever 
received  in  your  calm  retreat  some  visiter,  full  of  the 
busy  and  excited  life  which  you  imagined  yourself  con^ 
tented  to  relinquish  1  If  so,  have  you  not  perceived 
that,  in  proportion  as  his  presence  and  communication 
either  revived  old  memories,  or  brought  before  you  new 
pictures  of  "  the  bright  tumult"  of  that  existence  of 
which  your  guest  made  a  part,  you  began  to  compare 
him  curiously  with  yourself ;  you  began  to  feel  that 
what  before  was  to  rest  is  now  to  rot ;  that  your  years 
are  gliding  from  you  unenjoyod  and  wasted  ;  that  the 
contrast  between  the  animal  life  of  passionate  civiliza- 
tion and  the  vegetable  torpor  of  motionless  seclusion  is 
one  that,  if  you  are  still  young,  it  tasks  your  philosophy 
to  bear — feeling  all  the  while  that  the  torpor  may  be 
yours  to  your  grave  ?    And  when  your  guest  has  left 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  17 

you,  when  you  are  again  alone,  is  the  solitude  the  same 
as  it  was  before  1 

Our  poor  Caleb  had  for  years  rooted  his  thoughts  to 
his  village.  His  guest  had  been,  like  the  bird  in  the 
fairy  tale,  settling  upon  the  quiet  branches,  and  singing 
so  loudly  and  so  gladly  of  the  enchanted  skies  afar,  that, 
when  it  flew  away,  the  tree  pined,  nipped  and  withering 
in  the  sober  sun  in  which  before  it  had  basked  content- 
ed. The  guest  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  men  whose 
animal  spirits  exercise  upon  such  as  come  within  their 
circle  the  influence  and  power  usually  ascribed  only  to 
intellectual  quahties.  During  the  month  he  had  so- 
journed with  Caleb,  he  had  brought  back  to  the  poor 
parson  all  the  gayety  of  the  brisk  and  noisy  novitiate 
that  preceded  the  solemn  vow  and  the  dull  retreat :  the 
social  parties,  the  merry  suppers,  the  open-handed,  open-- 
hearted fellowship  of  riotous,  delightful,  extravagant, 
thoughtless  youth.  And  Caleb  was  not  a  bookman — 
not  a  scholar  ;  he  had  no  resources  in  himself,  no  occu- 
pation but  his  indolent  and  ill-paid  duties.  The  emo- 
tions, therefore,  of  the  active  man  were  easily  aroused 
within  him.  But  if  this  comparison  between  his  past 
and  present  life  rendered  him  restless  and  disturbed, 
how  much  more  deeply  and  lastingly  was  he  affected  by 
a  contrast  between  his  own  future  and  that  of  his  friend! 
not  in  those  points  where  he  could  never  hope  equality 
— wealth  and  station-^the  conventional  distinctions  to 
which,  after  all,  a  man  of  ordinary  sense  must  sooner 
or  later  reconcile  himself-^but  in  that  one  respect  wherein 
all,  high  and  low,  pretend  to  the  same  rights  ;  rights  which 
a  man  of  moderate  warmth  of  feeling  can  never  willing- 
ly renounce,  viz.,  a  partner  in  a  lot  however  obscure  ;  a 
kind  face  by  a  hearth,  no  matter  how  mean  it  be !  And 
his  happier  friend,  like  all  men  full  of  life;  was  full  of 
himself — full  of  his  love,  of  his  future,  of  the  blessings 
of  home,  and  wife,  and  children.  Then,  too,  the  young 
bride  seemed  so  fair,  so  confiding,  and  so  tender ;  so 
formed  to  grace  the  noblest  or  to  cheer  the  humblest 
home !  And  botli  were  so  happy,  so  all  in  all  to  each 
other,  as  they  left  that  barren  threshold !  And  the  priest 
felt  all  this  as,  melancholy  and  envious,  he  turned  from 
the  door  in  that  November  day  to  find  himself  thoroughly 
alone.  He  now  began  seriously  to  muse  upon  those 
fancied  blessings  which  men  wearied  with  celibacy  see 
springing  heavenward  behind  the  altar.  A  few  weeks 
B3 


a8  introductory  chapter. 

afterward  a  notable  change  was  visible  in  the  good 
man's  exterior.  He  became  more  careful  of  his  dress 
— he  shaved  every  morning — he  purchased  a  crop-eared 
Welsh  cob — and  it  was  soon  known  in  the  neighbour- 
hood that  the  only  journey  the  cob  was  condemned  to 
take  was  to  the  house  of  a  certain  squire,  who,  amid  a 
family  of  all  ages,  boasted  two  very  pretty  marriageable 
daughters.  That  was  the  second  holyday-time  of  poor 
Caleb — the  love  romances  of  his  life  :  it  soon  closed. 
On  learning  the  amount  of  the  pastor's  stipend,  the 
squire  refused  to  receive  his  addresses  ;  and,  shortly  af- 
ter, the  girl  to  whom  he  had  attached  himself  made  what 
the  world  calls  a  happy  match.  And  perhaps  it  was 
one,  for  I  never  heard  that  she  regretted  the  forsaken 
lover.  Perhaps  Caleb  was  not  one  of  those  whose 
place  in  a  woman's  heart  is  never  to  be  supplied.  The 
lady  married,  the  world  went  round  as  before,  the  brook 
danced  as  merrily  through  the  village,  the  poor  worked 
the  week-days,  and  the  urchins  gambolled  round  the 
gravestones  on  the  Sabbath,  and  the  curate's  heart  was 
broken.  He  languished  gradually  and  silently  away. 
The  villagers  observed  that  he  had  lost  his  old  good-hu- 
moured smile — that  he  did  not  stop  every  Saturday  even- 
ing at  the  carrier's  gate,  to  ask  if  there  were  any  news 
stirring  in  the  town  which  the  carrier  weekly  visited — 
that  he  did  not  come  to  borrow  the  stray  newspapers 
that  now  and  then  found  their  way  into  the  village — that, 
as  he  sauntered  along  the  brook-side,  his  clothes  hung 
loose  on  his  limbs — and  that  he  no  longer  "  whistled  as 
he  went :"  alas!  he  was  no  longer  in  want  of  thought." 
By  degrees,  the  walks  themselves  were  suspended ;  the 
parson  was  no  longer  visible  :  a  stranger  performed  his 
duties. 

One  day — it  might  be  some  three  years  after  the  fatal 
visit  I  have  commemorated — one  very  wild,  rough  day 
in  early  March,  the  postman  who  made  the  round  of  the 
district  rung  at  the  parson's  bell.  The  single  female 
servant,  her  red  hair  loose  in  her  neck,  replied  to  the 
call. 

"  And  how  is  the  master  V 

"  Very  bad  ;"  and  the  girl  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  He  should  leave  you  something  handsome,"  remark- 
ed the  postm<an,  kindly,  as  he  pocketed  the  money  for 
•.he  letter. 

The  pastor  was  in  bed :  the  boisterous  wind  rattled 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  19 

down  the  chimney,  and  shook  the  ill-fitting  casement  in 
its  rotting  frame.  The  clothes  he  had  last  worn  were 
thrown  carelessly  about,  unsmoothed,  unbrushed ;  the 
scanty  articles  of  furniture  were  out  of  their  proper  pla- 
ces :  slovenly  discomfort  marked  the  death-chamber. 
And  by  the  bedside  stood  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  a 
stout,  rustic,  homely,  thoroughly  Welsh  priest,  who 
might  have  sat  for  the  portrait  of  Parson  Adams. 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  you,"  said  the  visiter. 

"  For  me  !"  echoed  Caleb,  feebly.  "Ah!  well ;  is  it 
not  very  dark,  or  are  my  eyes  failing  1"  The  clergyman 
and  the  servant  drew  aside  the  curtains  and  propped  the 
sick  man  up  :  he  read  as  follows,  slowly  and  with  diffi- 
culty ; 

"  Dear  Caleb, — At  last  I  can  do  something  for  you. 
A  friend  of  mine  has  a  living  in  his  gift  just  vacant, 
worth,  I  understand,  from  three  to  four  hundred  a  year  ; 
pleasant  neighbourhood — small  parish.  And  my  friend 
keeps  the  hounds  ! — just  the  thing  for  you.  He  is,  how- 
ever, a  very  particular  sort  of  person — wants  a  compan- 
ion, and  has  a  horror  of  anything  evangelical — wishes, 
therefore,  to  see  you  before  he  decides.  If  you  can 
meet  me  in  London  some  day  next  month,  I'll  present 
you  to  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  settled.  You 
must  think  it  strange  I  never  wrote  to  you  since  we 
parted,  but  you  know  I  never  was  a  very  good  corre- 
spondent ;  and  as  I  had  nothing  to  communicate  advanta- 
geous to  you,  I  thought  it  a  sort  of  insult  to  enlarge  on 
my  own  happiness,  and  so  forth.  All  I  shall  say  on  that 
score  is,  that  I've  sown  my  wild  oats  ;  and  that  you  may 
take  my  word  for  it,  there's  nothing  that  can  make  a  man 
know  how  large  the  heart  is,  and  how  little  the  world, 
till  he  comes  home  (perhaps  after  a  hard  day's  hunting), 
and  sees  his  own  fireside,  and  hears  one  dear  welcome  ; 
and — oh,  by-the-way,  Caleb,  if  you  could  but  see  my 
boy,  the  sturdiest  little  rogue !  But  enough  of  this. 
All  that  vexes  me  is,  that  I've  never  yet  been  able  to 
declare  my  marriage  ;  my  uncle,  however,  suspects  no- 
thing :  my  wife  bears  up  against  all,  like  an  angel  as  she 
is  ;  still,  in  case  of  any  accident,  it  occurs  to  me,  now 
I'm  writing  to  you,  especially  if  you  leave  the  place, 
that  it  may  be  as  well  to  send  me  an  examined  copy  of 
the  register.     In  those  remote  places  registei'S  are  often 


so  Il^TRODUCTORY    CHAPTEli. 

lost  or  mislaid  ;  and  it  may  be  useful  hereafter,  wheii  I 
proclaim  the  marriage,  to  clear  up  all  doubt  as  to  the  fact. 
"  Good-by,  old  fellow. 

"  Yours  most  truly,"  &c.  &c. 

"  It  comes  too  late,"  sighed  Caleb,  heavilyj  stnd  the 
letter  fell  from  his  hands.  There  was  a  long  pause. 
"  Close  the  shutters,"  said  the  sick  man  at  last ;  "  1 
think  I  could  sleep  :  and — and— pick  up  that  letter." 

With  a  trembling  but  eager  gripe,  he  seized  the  paper 
as  a  miser  would  seize  the  deeds  of  an  estate  on  which 
he  has  a  mortgage.  He  smootheid  the  folds,  looked 
complacently  at  the  well-known  hand,  smiled — a  ghastly 
smile  ! — and  then  placed  the  letter  under  his  pillow  and 
sank  down :  they  left  him  alone.  He  did  not  wake  for 
some  hours,  and  that  good  clergyman,  poor  sis  himself, 
■was  again  at  his  post.  The  only  friendships  that  are 
really  with  us  in  the  hour  of  need  are  those  which  are 
cemented  by  equality  of  circumstance.  In  the  depth  of 
home,  in  the  hour  of  tribulation,  by  the  bed  of  death,  the 
rich  and  the  poor  are  seldom  found  side  by  side.  Caleb 
was  evidently  much  feebler,  but  his  sense  seemed  clear- 
er than  it  had  been,  and  the  instincts  of  his  native  kind- 
ness were  the  last  that  left  him.  "  There  is  something 
he  wants  me  to  do  for  him,"  he  muttered.  "  Ah  !  I  re- 
member :  Jones,  will  you  send  for  the  parish  register  ? 
It  is  somewhere  in  the  vestry-room,  I  think— but  no- 
thing's kept  properly.  Better  go  yourself — its  impor- 
tant." 

Mr.  Jones  nodded,  and  sallied  forth.  The  register 
was  not  in  the  vestry  ;  the  churchwardens  knew  nothing 
about  it ;  the  clerk — a  new  clerk,  who  also  was  the  sex- 
ton, and  rather  a  wild  fellow — had  gone  ten  miles  off  to 
a  wedding  ;  every  place  was  searched ;  till,  at  last,  the 
book  was  found,  amid  a  heap  of  old  magazines  and  dus- 
ty papersj  in  tlie  parlour  of  Caleb  himself.  By  the  time 
it  WHS  brought  to  him  the  sufferer  was  fast  declining; 
with  some  difficulty  his  dim  eye  discovered  the  place 
where,  amid  the  pothooks  of  the  parishioners,  the  large, 
clear  hand  of  his  old  friend,  and  the  trembling  charac-* 
ters  of  the  bride,  looked  forth  distinguished. 

"  Extract  this  for  me,  will  you  V  said  Cal6b; 

Mr.  Jones  obeyed. 

"  Now  just  write  above  the  extract  r 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  21 

"  Sir, — By  Mr.  Price's  desire  I  send  you  the  enclosed. 
He  is  too  ill  to  write  himself.  But  he  bids  me  say  that 
he  has  never  been  quite  the  same  man  since  you  left 
him  ;  and  that,  if  he  should  not  get  well  again,  still  your 
kind  letter  has  made  him  easier  in  his  mind." 

Caleb  stopped. 

"  Go  on." 

"  That  is  all  I  have  to  say :  sign  your  name,  and  put 
the  address — here  it  is.  Ah,  the  letter,"  he  muttered, 
"  must  not  lie  about !  If  anything  happen  to  me,  it  may 
get  him  into  trouble." 

And,  as  Mr.  Jones  sealed  his  communication,  Caleb 
feebly  stretched  his  wan  hand,  and  held  the  letter  which 
had  "  come  too  late"  over  the  flame  of  the  candle.  As 
the  paper  dropped  on  the  carpetless  floor,  Mr.  Joiies 
prudently  set  thereon  the  broad  sole  of  his  top-boot,  and 
the  maid-servant  brushed  it  into  the  grate. 

"  Ah,  trample  it  out ;  hurry  it  among  the  ashes.  The 
last  as  the  rest,"  said  Caleb,  hoarsely.  "  Friendship, 
fortune,  hope,  love,  life — a  little  flame,  and  then — and 
then—" 

"  Don't  be  uneasy — it's  quite  out !"  said  Mr.  Jones. 

Caleb  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  lingered  till  the 
next  day,  when  he  passed  insensibly  from  sleep  to 
death.  As  soon  as  the  breath  was  out  of  his  body,  Mr. 
Jones  felt  that  his  duty  was  discharged — that  other  du- 
ties called  him  home.  He  promised  to  return  to  read 
the  burial-service  over  the  deceased,  gave  some  hasty 
orders  about  the  plain  funeral,  and  was  turning  from  the 
room,  when  he  saw  the  letter  he  had  written  by  Caleb's 
wish  still  on  the  table.  "  I  pass  the  postofllce — I'll  put 
it  in,"  said  he  to  the  weeping  servant ;  "  and  just  give 
me  that  scrap  of  paper."  So  he  wrote  on  the  scrap, 
"  P.S.  He  died  this  morning  at  half  past  twelve,  without 
pain. — R.  J  ;"  and,  without  the  trouble  of  breaking  the 
seal,  thrust  the  final  bulletin  into  the  folds  of  the  letter, 
which  he  then  carefully  placed  in  his  vast  pocket  and 
safely  transferred  to  the  post.  And  that  was  all  that  the 
jovial  and  happy  man  to  whom  the  letter  was  addressed 
ever  heard  of  the  last  days  of  his  college  friend. 

The  living  vacant  by  the  death  of  Caleb  Price  was  not 
so  valuable  as  to  plague  the  patron  with  many  applica- 
tions. It  continued  vacant  nearly  the  whole  of  the  six 
months  prescribed  by  law.    And  the  desolate  parsonage 


22  INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 

was  committed  to  the  charge  of  one  of  the  villagers, 
who  had  occasionally  assisted  Caleb  in  the  care  of  his 
little  garden.  The  villager,  his  wife,  and  half  a  dozen 
i«oisy,  ragged  children,  took  possession  of  the  quiet  bach- 
elor's abode.  The  furniture  had  been  sold  to  pay  the 
expenses  of  the  funeral  and  a  few  trifling  bills ;  and, 
save  the  kitchen  and  the  two  attics,  the  empty  house, 
uninhabited,  was  surrendered  to  the  sportive  mischief 
of  the  idle  urchins,  who  prowied  about  the  silent  cham- 
bers in  fear  of  the  silence  and  in  ecstasy  at  the  space.- 
The  bedroom  in  which  Caleb  had  died  was,  indeed,  long 
held  sacred  by  infantine  superstition.  But,  one  day,  the 
eldest  boy  having  ventured  across  the  threshold,  two 
cupboards,  the  doors  standing  ajar,  attracted  the  child's 
curiosity.  He  opened  one,  and  his  exclamation  soon 
brought  the  rest  of  the  children  round  him.  Have  you 
ever,  reader,  when  a  boy,  suddenly  stumbled  on  that  El 
Dorado,  called  by  the  grown-up  folks  a  lumber-room  1 
Lumber,  indeed !  what  Virtu  double-locks  in  cabinets  is 
the  real  lumber  to  the  boy!  Lumber,  reader!  to  thee 
h  was  a  treasury !  Now  this  cupboard  had  been  the 
lumber-room  in  Caleb's  household.  In  an  instant  the 
whole  troop  had  thrown  themselves  on  the  motley  con- 
tents. Stray  joints  of  clumsy  fishing-rods  —  artificial 
baits — a  pair  of  worn-out  top-boots,  in  which  one  of  the 
urchins,  whooping  and  shouting,  buried  hin>self  up  to  the 
middle — moth-eaten,  stained,  and  ragged,  the  collegian's 
gown :  relic  of  the  dead  man's  palmy  time — a  bag  of 
carpenter's  tools,  chiefly  broken—  a  cricket-bat — an  odd 
boxing-glove — a  fencing-foil,  snapped  in  the  middle — 
and,  more  than  all,  some  half-finished  attempts  at  rude 
toys  :  a  boat,  a  cart,  a  doll's  house,  in  which  the  good- 
natured  Caleb  had  busied  himself  for  the  younger  ones 
of  that  family  in  which  he  had  found  the  fatal  ideal  of 
his  trite  life.  One  by  one  were  these  lugged  forth  from 
their  dusty  slumber — profane  hands  struggling  for  the 
first  right  of  appropriation.  And  now,  revealed  against 
the  wail,  glared  upon  the  startled  Violators  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, with  glassy  eyes  and  horrent  visage,  a  grim  mon- 
ster. They  huddled  back  one  upon  the  other,  pale  and 
breathless,  till  the  eldest,  seeing  that  the  creature 
moved  not,  took  heart — approached  on  tiptoe — twice 
receded,  and  twice  again  advanced — and  finally  drew 
out,  daubed,  painted,  and  tricked  forth  in  the  semblance' 
of  a  griffin,  a  giganli-c  kite  ! 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  23 

The  children,  alas  1  were  not  old  and  wise  enough  to 
know  all  the  dormant  value  of  that  imprisoned  aeronaut, 
which  had  cost  poor  Caleb  many  a  dull  evening's  labour 
— the  intended  gift  to  the  false  one's  favourite  brother. 
But  they  guessed  that  it  was  a  thing  or  spirit  appertain- 
ing of  right  to  them ;  and  they  resolved,  after  mature 
consultation,  to  impart  the  secret  of  their  discovery  to 
an  old  wooden-legged  villager  who  had  served  jn  the 
army,  who  was  the  idol  of  all  the  children  of  the  place  ; 
and  who,  they  firmly  beheved,  knew  everything  under 
the  sun  except  the  mystical  arts  of  reading  and  writing. 
Accordingly,  having  seen  that  the  coast  was  clear — for 
they  considered  their  parents  (as  the  children  of  the 
hard-working  often  do)  the  naturral  foes  to  amusement 
— they  carried  the  monster  into  an  old  outhouse,  and  raij 
to  the  veteran  to  beg  him  to  come  up  slyly  and  inspect 
its  properties. 

Three  months  after  this  memorable  event  arrived  the 
pew  pastor  :  a  slim,  prim,  orderly,  and  starch  young 
man,  framed  by  nature  and  trained  by  practice  to  bear  a 
great  deal  of  solitude  and  starving.  Two  loving  couples 
had  waited  to  be  married  till  His  Reverence  should  ar- 
rive. The  ceremony  performed,  where  was  the  regisr 
try-book  \  The  vestry  was  searched,  the  churchward- 
ens interrogated  ;  the  gay  clerk,  who,  on  the  demise  of 
his  deaf  predecessor,  had  come  into  office  a  little  before 
Caleb's  last  illness,  had  a  dim  recollection  of  having  ta- 
ken the  registry  up  to  Mr.  Price  at  the  time  the  vestry- 
room  was  whitewashed.  The  house  was  searched  ; 
the  cupboard,  the  mysterious  cupboard,  was  explored. 
'■'  Here  it  is,  sir !"  cried  the  clerk  ;  and  he  pounced  upon 
a  pale  parchment  volume.  The  thin  clergyman  opened 
it,  and  recoiled  in  dismay  :  more  than  three  fourths  of 
the  leaves  had  been  torn  out. 

"  It  is  the  moths,  sir,"  said  the  gardener's  wife,  who 
had  not  yet  removed  from  the  house. 

The  clergyman  looked  round :  one  of  the  children 
was  trembling.  "  What  have  you  done  to  this  book,  lit- 
tle one  ]" 

"  That  book  1— the— hi !— hi !— " 

-"  Speak  the  truth,  and  you  sha'n't  be  punished." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  any  harm — hi  I^-^hi ! — " 

"  Well,  and—" 

"  And  old  Ben  helped  us.'' 

f^  Well !" 


24  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  And — and — and — hi ! — hi  ! — The  tail  of  the  kite, 
sir!—" 

"  Where  is  the  kite  1" 

Alas  I  the  kite  and  its  tail  were  long  ago  gone  to  that 
undiscovei'ed  limbo,  where  all  things  lost,  broken,  van- 
ished, and  destroyed — things  that  lose  themselves,  for 
servants  are  too  honest  to  steal :  things  that  break  them- 
selves, for  servants  are  too  careful  to  break — find  an 
everlasting  and  impenetrable  refuge. 

"  It  does  not  signify  a  pin's  head,"  said  the  clerk ; 
"  the  parish  must  find  a  new  'un  !" 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  mine,"  said  the  pastor.  "  Are  my 
chops  ready  ?' 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  And  soothed  with  idle  dreams  the 
Frowning  fate." — Crabbe. 

"  Why  does  not  my  father  come  backl  What  a  time 
he  has  been  away  !" 

"  My  dear  Philip,  business  detains  him  :  but  he  will 
be  here  in  a  few  days — perhaps  to-day  !" 

"  I  should  like  him  to  see  how  much  I  am  improved." 

"Improved  in  what,  Philip  V  said  the  mother,  with  a 
smile.  "  Not  Latin,  I  am  sure  ;  for  I  have  not  seen  you 
open  a  book  since  you  insisted  on  poor  Todd's  dis- 
missal." 

"  Todd !  Oh,  he  was  such  a  scrub,  and  spoke  through 
his  nose  :  what  could  he  know  of  Latin  V 

"  More  than  you  ever  will,  I  fear,  unless — "  and  here 
there  was  a  certain  hesitation  in  the  mother's  voice, 
"  unless  your  father  consents  to  your  going  to  school." 

"  Well,  I  should  hke  to  go  to  Eton  !  That's  the  only 
school  for  a  gentleman.     I've  heard  my  father  say  so." 

"  Philip,  you  are  too  proud." 

"  Proud  !  You  often  call  me  proud,  but  then  you  kiss 
me  when  you  do  so.     Kiss  me  now,  mother." 

The  lady  drew  her  son  to  her  breast,  put  aside  the 
clustering  hair  from  his  forehead,  and  kissed  him  ;  but 
the  kiss  was  sad,  and  a  moment  after  she  pushed  him 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  25 

away  gently,  and  muttered,  unconscious  that  she  was 
overheard, 

"  If,  after  all,  my  devotion  to  the  father  should  wrong 
the  children!" 

The  boy  started,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his  brow ; 
but  he  said  nothing.  A  hght  step  entered  the  room 
through  the  French  casements  that  opened  on  the  lawn, 
and  the  mother  turned  to  her  youngest-born,  and  her  eye 
brightened. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  here  is  a  lettef  for  you.  I 
snatched  it  from  John  :  it  is  papa's  handwriting." 

The  lady  uttered  a  joyous  exclamation,  and  seized 
the  letter.  The  younger  child  nestled  himself  on  a  stool 
at  her  feet,  looking  up  vvhile  she  read  it ;  the  elder  stood 
apart,  leaning  on  his  gun,  and  with  something  of  thought, 
even  of  gloom,  upon  his  countenance. 

There  was  a  strong  contrast  in  the  two  children. 
The  elder,  who  was  about  fifteen,  seemed  older  than  he 
was,  not  only  from  his  height,  but  from  the  darkness  of 
his  complexion,  and  a  certain  proud,  nay,  imperious  ex- 
pression upon  features  that,  without  having  the  soft  and 
fluent  graces  of  childhood,  were  yet  regular  and  stri- 
king. His  dark  green  shooting-dress,  with  the  belt  and 
pouch :  the  cap,  with  its  gold  tassel  set  upon  his  luxu- 
riant curls,  which  had  the  purple  gloss  of  the  raven's 
plume,  blended,  perhaps,  something  prematurely  manly 
in  his  own  tastes  with  the  love  of  the  fantastic  and  the 
picturesque  which  bespeaks  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
proud  niother.  The  younger  son  had  scarcely  told  his 
ninth  year ;  and  the  soft  auburn  ringlets,  descending 
half  way  down  the  shoulders  ;  the  rich  and  delicate 
bloom  that  exhibits  at  once  the  hardy  health  and  the 
gentle  fostering  ;  the  large,  deep  blue  eyes ;  the  flexile 
and  almost  eff"eminate  contour  of  the  harmonious  fea- 
tures, altogether  made  such  an  ideal  of  childlike  beauty 
as  Lawrence  had  loved  to  paint  or  Chantrey  model. 

And  the  daintiest  cares  of  a  mother,  who,  as  yet,  has 
her  darling  all  to  herself — her  toy,  her  plaything — were 
visible  in  the  large  falling  collar  of  finest  cambric,  and 
the  blue  velvet  dress,  with  its  filigree  buttons  and  em- 
broidered sash-  Both  the  boys  had  about  them  the  air 
of  those  whom  Fate  ushers  blandly  into  life  :  the  air 
of  wealth,  and  birth,  and  luxury,  spoiled  and  pampered 
as  if  earth  had  no  thorn  for  their  feet,  and  Heaven  not 
a  wind  to  visit  their  young  cheeks  too  roughly.     The 

Vol.  I.— C 


26  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

mother  had  been  extremely  handsome,  and  thotigh  the 
first  bloom  of  youth  was  now  gone,  she  had  still  the 
beauty  that  might  captivate  new  love :  an  easier  task 
than  to  retain  the  old.  Both  her  sons,  though  differing 
from  each  other,  resembled  her.  She  had  the  features 
of  the  younger;  and  probably  any  one  who  had  seen 
her  in  her  own  earlier  youth  would  have  recognised  in 
that  child's  gay,  yet  gentle  countenance,  the  mirror  of 
the  mother  when  a  girl.  Now,  however,  especially 
when  silent  or  thoughtful,  the  expression  of  her  face 
was  rather  that  of  the  elder  boy ;  the  cheek,  once  so 
rosy,  was  now  pale,  though  clear,  with  something 
which  time  had  given,  of  pride  and  thought,  in  the  curv- 
ed lip  and  the  high  forehead.  They  who  could  have 
looked  on  her  in  her  more  lonely  hours  might  have 
seen  that  the  pride  had  known  shame,  and  the  thought 
was  the  shadow  of  the  passions  of  fear  and  sorrow. 

But  now,  as  she  read  those  hasty,  brief,  but  well-re- 
membered characters — read  as  one  whose  heart  was  in 
her  eyes — ^joy  and  triumph  alone  were  visible  in  that 
eloquent  countenance.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  breast 
heaved  ;  and  at  length,  clasping  the  letter  to  her  lips, 
she  kissed  it  again  and  again  with  passionate  transport. 
Then,  as  her  eyes  met  the  dark,  inquiring,  earnest  gaze 
of  her  eldest  born,  she  flung  her  arms  round  him  and 
wept  vehemently. 

"What  is  the  matter,  mamma,  dear  mamma?"  said 
the  youngest,  pushing  himself  between  Philip  and  his 
mother. 

"  Your  father  is  coming  back  this  day — this  very  hour ; 
and  you — you — child — you,  Philip — "  Here  sobs  broke 
in  upon  her  words,  and  left  her  speechless. 

The  letter  that  had  produced  this  efl'ect  ran  as  follows: 

"  To  Mrs.  Morton,  Fernside  Cottage. 
"  Dearest  Kate, — My  last  letter  prepared  you  for  the 
news  I  have  now  to  relate — my  poor  uncle  is  no  more. 
Though  I  had  seen  so  little  of  him,  especially  of  late 
years,  his  death  sensibly  affected  me :  but  1  have  at 
least  the  consolation  of  thinking  that  there  is  nothing 
now  to  prevent  my  doing  justice  to  you.  I  am  the  sole 
heir  to  his  fortune.  I  have  it  in  my  power,  dearest 
Kate,  to  offer  you  a  tardy  recompense  for  all  you  have 
put  up  with  for  my  sake ;  a  sacred  testimony  to  your 
long  forbearance,  your  unreproachful  love,  your  wrongs, 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  27 

and  your  devotion.  Our  children  too — my  noble  Philip ! 
— kiss  them,  Kate — kiss  them  for  me  a  thousand  times. 
"  I  write  in  great  haste  ;  the  burial  is  just  over,  and 
my  letter  will  only  serve  to  announce  my  return.  My 
darling  Catharine,  1  shall  be  with  you  almost  as  soon 
as  these  lines  meet  your  eyes — those  dear  eyes,  that, 
for  all  the  tears  they  have  shed  for  my  faults  and  follies, 
have  never  looked  the  less  kind. 

"  Yours,  ever  as  ever, 

"  Philip  Beaufort." 

This  letter  has  told  its  tale,  and  little  remains  to  ex- 
plain. Phihp  Beaufort  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom 
there  are  many  in  his  peculiar  class  of  society — easy, 
thoughtless,  good-humoured,  generous,  with  feelings 
infinitely  better  than  his  principles. 

Inheriting  himself  but  a  moderate  fortune,  which  was 
three  parts  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  before  he  was 
twenty-five,  he  had  the  most  brilliant  expectations  from 
his  uncle ;  an  old  bachelor,  who,  from  a  courtier,  had 
turned  a  misanthrope  ;  cold,  shrewd,  penetrating,  world- 
ly, sarcastic,  and  imperious ;  and  from  this  relation 
he  received,  meanwhile,  a  handsome,  and,  indeed,  mu- 
nificent allowance.  About  sixteen  years  before  the 
date  at  which  this  narrative  opens,  Philip  Beaufort  had 
*'  run  off,"  as  the  saying  is,  with  Catharine  Morton,  then 
little  more  than  a  child — a  motherless  child — educated 
at  a  boarding-school  to  notions  and  desires  far  beyond 
her  station;  for  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  provincial 
tradesman.  And  Phihp  Beaufort,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
was  possessed  of  most  of  the  quahties  that  dazzle  the 
eyes,  and  many  of  the  arts  that  betray  the  affections. 
It  was  suspected  by  some  that  they  were  privately  mar- 
ried :  if  so,  the  secret  had  been  closely  kept,  and  baf- 
fled all  the  inquiries  of  the  stern  old  uncle.  Still  there 
was  much,  not  only  in  the  manner,  at  once  modest  and 
dignified,  but  in  the  character  of  Catharine,  which  was 
proud  and  high-spirited,  to  give  colour  to  the  suspicion. 
Beaufort,  a  man  naturally  careless  of  forms,  paid  her  a 
marked  and  punctilious  respect ;  and  his  attachment  was 
evidently  one,  not  only  of  passion,  but  of  confidence  and 
esteem.  Time  developed  in  her  mental  qualities  far  su- 
perior to  those  of  Beaufort ;  and  for  these  she  had  ample 
leisure  of  cultivation.  To  the  influence  derived  from 
her  miud  and  person  she  added  that  of  a  frank,  affection 


28  NIGHT   AND   MORNINGf 

ate,  and  winning  disposition ;  their  children  cemented 
the  bond  between  them.  Mr.  Beaufort  was  passionately 
attached  to  field-sports.  He  lived  the  greater  part  of 
the  year  with  Catharine  at  the  beautiful  cottage,  to  which 
he  had  built  hunting-stables  that  were  the  admiration  of 
the  county ;  and,  though  the  cottage  was  near  to  Lon- 
don, the  pleasures  of  the  metropolis  seldom  allured  him 
for  more  than  a  few  days — generally  but  a  few  hours — 
at  a  time  ;  and  he  always  hurried  back  with  renewed  rel- 
ish to  what  he  considered  his  home. 

Whatever  the  connexion  between  Catharine  and  him- 
self (and  of  the  true  nature  of  that  connexion,  the  Intro- 
ductory Chapter  has  made  the  reader  more  enlightened 
than  the  world),  her  influence  had  at  least  weaned  from 
all  excesses,  and  many  follies,  a  man  who,  before  he 
knew  her,  had  seemed  likely,  from  the  extreme  joviality 
and  carelessness  of  his  nature,  and  a  very  imperfect  ed- 
ucation, to  contract  whatever  vices  were  most  in  fash- 
ion as  preservatives  against  ermui.  And  if  their  union 
had  been  openly  hallowed  by  the  Church,  Philip  Beau- 
fort had  been  universally  esteemed  the  model  of  a  ten- 
der husband  and  a  fond  father.  Ever,  as  he  became 
more  and  more  acquainted  with  Catharine's  natural  good 
qualities,  and  more  and  more  attached  to  his  home,  had 
Mr.  Beaufort,  with  the  generosity  of  true  affection,  de- 
sired to  remove  from  her  the  pain  of  an  equivocal  condi- 
tion by  a  public  marriage.  But  Mr.  Beaufort,  though 
generous,  was  not  free  from  the  worldliness  which  had 
met  him  everywhere  amid  the  society  in  which  his  youth 
had  been  spent.  His  uncle,  the  head  of  one  of  those 
families  which  yearly  vanish  from  the  commonalty  into 
the  peerage,  but  which  once  formed  a  distinguished  pe- 
culiarity ill  the  aristocracy  of  England — families  of  an- 
cient birth,  immense  possessions,  at  once  noble  and  un- 
titled— ^held  his  estates  by  no  other  tenure  than  his  own 
caprice.  Though  he  professed  to  like  Philip,  yet  he  saw 
but  little  of  him.  When  the  news  of  the  illicit  connex- 
ion his  nephew  Was  reported  to  have  formed  reached 
him,  he  at  first  resolved  to  break  it  oflT;  but,  observing- 
that  Philip  no  longer  gambled  nor  nm  in  debt,  and  had 
retired  from  the  turf  to  the  safer  and  more  c(;onomical 
pastimes  of  the  field,  he  contented  himself  with  inquiries 
which  satisfied  him  that  Piiilip  was  not  married  ;  and 
perhaps  he  thought  it,  on  the  whole,  more  prudent  to 
wink  at  an  error  that  was  not  attended  by  the  bills  which 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  29 

had  heretofore  characterized  the  human  mfirmities  of  his 
reckless  nephew.  He  took  care,  however,  incidentally, 
and  in  reference  to  some  scandal  of  the  day,  to  pro- 
nounce his  opinion,  not  upon  the  fault,  but  upon  the  only 
mode  of  repairing  it. 

"  If  ever,"  said  he,  and  he  looked  grimly  at  Philip 
while  he  spoke,  "  a  gentleman  were  to  disgrace  his  an- 
cestry by  introducing  into  his  family  one  whom  his  own 
sister  could  not  receive  at  her  house,  why,  he  ought  to 
sink  to  her  level,  and  wealth  would  but  make  his  dis- 
grace the  more  notorious.  If  I  had  an  only  son,  and 
that  son  were  booby  enough  to  do  anything  so  discredit- 
able as  to  marry  beneath  him,  I  would  rather  have  my 
footman  for  my  successor.     You  understand,  PhiU" 

Philip  did  understand,  and  looked  round  at  the  noble 
house  and  the  stately  park,  and  his  generosity  was  not 
equal  to  the  trial.  Catharine — so  great  was  her  power 
over  him — might,  perhaps,  have  easily  triumphed  over 
his  more  selfish  calculations  ;  but  her  love  was  too  del- 
icate ever  to  breathe,  of  itself,  the  hope  that  lay  deep- 
est at  her  heart.  And  her  children ! — ah  !  for  them  she 
pined,  but  for  them  she  also  hoped.  Before  them  was  a 
long  future ;  and  she  had  all  confidence  in  Philip.  Of 
late,  there  had  been  considerable  doubts  how  far  the  el- 
der Beaufort  would  reahze  the  expectations  in  which  his 
nephew  had  been  reared.  Philip's  younger  brother  had 
been  much  with  the  old  gentleman,  and  appeared  to  be  in 
high  favour ;  this  brother  was  a  man  in  every  respect 
the  opposite  to  Philip :  sober,  supple,  decorous,  ambi- 
tious, with  a  face  of  smiles  and  a  heart  of  ice. 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  taken  dangerously  ill,  and 
Phihp  was  summoned  to  his  bed  of  death.  Robert,  the 
younger  brother,  was  there  also,  with  his  wife  (for  he 
had  married  prudently)  and  his  children — (he  had  two,  a 
son  and  daughter).  Not  a  word  did  the  uncle  say  as  to 
the  disposition  of  his  property  till  an  hour  before  he 
died.  And  then,  turning  in  his  bed,  he  looked  first  at  one 
nephew,  then  at  the  other,  and  faltered  out, 

"Philip,  you  are  a  scapegrace,  but  a  gentleman:  Rob- 
ert, you  are  a  careful,  sober,  plausible  man,  and  it  is  a 
great  pity  you  were  not  in  business  :  you  would  have 
made  a  fortune ! — you  won't  inherit  one,  though  you  think 
it;  I  have  marked  you,  sir.  Philip,  beware  of  your  broth- 
er.    Now  let  me  see  the  parson." 

The  old  man  died,  the  will  was  read,  and  Philip  sue- 
C2 


So  NIGHT   AND    MORNlNcJ. 

ceeded  to  a  rental  of  £'20,000  a  year ;  Robert  to  a  dia- 
mond ring,  a  gold  repeater,  jESOOO,  and  a  curious  collec- 
tion of  bottled  snakes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Stay,  delightful  Dream  ; 
Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden  walk  ; 
Give  him  her  arm — of  blessings  let  them  talk." 

(Jrabbe. 

"  There,  Robert,  therd !  now  you  cdn  see  the  new  sta- 
bles. By  Jove,  they  are  the  completest  thing  in  the 
three  kingdoms !" 

"  Quite  a  pile  !  But  is  that  the  house  1  You  lodge 
your  horses  more  magnificently  than  yourself." 

"  But  is  it  not  a  beautiful  cottage "? — to  be  sure,  it  owes 
everything  to  Catharine's  taste.     Dear  Catharine  !" 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort — for  this  colloquy  took  place  be- 
tween the  brothers  as  their  britska  rapidly  descended  the 
hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  Fernside  Cottage  and  its 
miniature  demesnes — Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  pulled  his 
travelling-cap  over  his  brows,  and  his  countenance  fell, 
"whether  at  the  name  of  Catharine,  or  the  tone  in  which 
the  name  was  uttered ;  and  there  was  a  pailse,  broken 
by  a  third  occupant  of  the  britska,  a  youth  of  about  sev- 
enteen, who  sat  opposite  the  brothers. 

"  And  who  are  those  boys  on  the  lawn,  uncle  V 

"  Who  are  those  boys  i"  It  was  a  simple  question, 
but  it  grated  on  the  ear  of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort :  it  struck 
discord  at  his  heart.  "  Who  were  those  boys  ?"  as  they 
ran  across  the  sward,  eager  to  welcome  their  father 
home — the  westering  sun  shining  full  on  their  joyous 
faces — their  young  forms  so  lithe  and  so  graceful — their 
merry  laughter  ringing  in  the  still  air.  "  Those  boys," 
thought  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  "  the  sons  of  shame,  rob 
mine  of  his  inheritance."  Tlie  elder  brother  turned 
round  at  his  nephew's  question,  and  saw  the  expression 
on  Robert's  face.     He  bit  liis  lip,  and  answered  gravely* 

"  Arthur,  they  are  my  children." 

"  1  did  not  know  you  were  married,"  replied  Arthur, 
bending  forward  to  take  a  better  view  of  his  cousins. 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  31 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  smiled  bitterly,  and  Philip's  brow 
grew  crimson. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  little  lodge;  Philip  open- 
ed the  door  and  jumped  to  the  ground ;  the  brother  and 
his  son  followed.  A  moment  more,  and  Philip  was  lock- 
ed in  Catharine's  arms,  her  tears  falling  fast  upon  his 
breast,  his  children  plucking  at  his  coat,  and  the  young- 
er one  crying,  in  his  shrill,  impatient  treble,  "  Papa !  papa ! 
you  don't  see  Sidney,  papa!" 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  placed  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoul- 
der and  arrested  his  steps  as  they  contemplated  the  group 
before  them. 

"  Arthur,"  said  he  in  a  hollow  whisper,  "  those  chil- 
dren are  our  disgrace  and  your  supplanters  ;  they  are 
bastards  !  bastards  !  and  they  are  to  be  his  heirs  !" 

Arthur  made  no  answer,  but  the  smile  with  which  he 
had  hitherto  gazed  on  his  new  relations  vanished. 

"  Kate,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  he  turned  from  Mrs. 
Morton,  and  lifted  his  youngest-born  in  his  arms,  "  this 
is  my  brother  and  his  son  :  they  are  welcomCj  are  they 
noti" 

Mr.  Robert  bowed  low,  and  extended  his  hand,  with 
stiif  affability,  to  Mrs.  Morton,  muttering  something 
equally  complimentary  and  inaudible. 

The  party  proceeded  towards  the  house.  Philip  and 
Arthur  brought  up  the  rear. 

"Do  you  shoot  ?"  asked  Arthur,  observing  the  gun  in 
his  cousin's  hand. 

"  Yes.  I  hope  this  season  to  hag  as  many  head  as 
my  father  :  he  is  a  famous  shot.  But  this  is  only  a  sin- 
gle barrel,  and  an  oldfashioned  sort  of  detonator.  My 
father  must  get  me  one  of  the  new  guns.  I  can't  afford 
it  myself." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Arthur,  smiling. 

■"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  resumed  Philip,  quickly,  and  with  a 
heightened  colour,  "  I  could  have  managed  it  very  well 
if  I  had  not  given  thirty  guineas  for  a  brace  of  pointers 
the  other  day  :  they  are  the  best  dogs  you  ever  saw." 

"Thirty  guineas  !"  echoed  Arthur,  looking  with  naive 
surprise  at  the  speaker ;  "  why,  how  old  are  you  V 

"Just  fifteen  last  birthday.  Holla,  John!  John  Green!" 
cried  the  young  gentleman,  in  an  imperious  voice,  to 
one  of  the  gardeners  who  was  crossing  the  lawn,  "  see 
that  the  nets  are  taken  down  to  the  lake  to-morrow,  and 
that  my  tent  is  pitched  properly,  by  the  hme-trees,  by 


32  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

nine  o'clock.  I  hope  you  will  understand  me  this  time : 
Heaven  knows  you  take  a  great  deal  of  telling  before 
you  understand  anything !" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Philip,"  said  the  man,  bowing  obsequious- 
ly ;  and  then  muttered  as  he  went  off,  "  Drat  the  nat'rel ! 
he  speaks  to  a  poor  man  as  if  he  warn't  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Does  your  father  keep  hunters  ]"  asked  Philip. 

"  No." 

"  Why  r' 

"  Perhaps  one  reason  may  be  that  he  is  not  rich 
enough." 

"  Oh  !  that's  a  pity.  Never  mind,  we'll  mount  you 
whenever  you  like  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

Young  Arthur  drew  himself  up,  and  his  air,  naturally 
frank  and  gentle,  became  haughty  and  reserved.  Philip 
gazed  on  him  and  felt  offended ;  he  scarce  knew  why, 
but  from  that  moment  he  conceived  a  dislike  to  his 
cousin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Poir  a  man  is  helpless  and  vain,  of  a  condition  so  exposed  to  ca- 
lamity that  a  raisin  is  able  to  kill  him :  any  trooper  out  of  the  Egyp- 
tian army— a  fly  can  do  it,  when  it  goes  on  God's  errand." 

Jeremy  Tavlor  :  On  the  Deceitfulness  of  the  Heart. 

The  two  brothers  sat  at  their  wine  after  dinner.  Rob- 
ert sipped  claret,  the  sturdy  Philip  quaffed  his  more 
generous  port.  Catharine  and  the  boys  might  be  seen 
at  a  little  distance,  and  by  the  light  of  a  soft  August 
moon,  among  the  shrubs  and  bosquets  of  the  lawn. 

Philip  Beaufort  was  about  five-and-forty,  tall,  robust, 
nay,  of  great  strength  of  frame  and  limb,  with  a  coun- 
tenance extremely  winning,  not  only  from  the  comeli- 
ness of  its  features,  but  its  frankness,  manliness,  and 
good-nature.  His  was  the  bronzed,  rich  complexion, 
the  inclination  towards  anbonpuint,  the  athletic  girth  of 
chest,  which  denote  redundant  health,  and  mirthful  tem- 
per, and  sanguine  biood.  Robert,  who  had  lived  the 
life  of  cities,  was  a  year  younger  than  his  brother; 
nearly  as  tall,  but  prJe,  meager,  stooping,  and  with  d 
careworn,  anxious,  hungry  look,  which  made  the  smile 


Night  and  morning.  33 

that  hung  upon  his  lips  seem  hollow  and  artificial.  His 
dress,  though  plain,  was  neat  and  studied  ;  his  manner 
bland  and  plausible ;  his  voice  sweet  and  low :  there 
was  that  about  him  which,  if  it  did  not  win  liking,  tended 
to  excite  respect ;  a  certain  decorum,  a  nameless  pro- 
priety of  appearance  and  bearing,  that  approached  a  lit- 
tle to  formality :  his  every  movement,  slow  and  meas- 
ured, was  that  of  one  who  paced  in  the  circle  that  fen- 
ces round  the  habits  and  usages  of  the  world. 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  "  I  had  always  decided  to  take 
this  step  whenever  my  poor  uncle's  death  should  allow 
me  to  do  so.  You  have  seen  Catharine,  but  you  do  not 
know  half  her  good  qualities  ;  she  would  grace  any  sta- 
tion :  and,  besides,  she  nursed  me  so  carefully  last  year, 
when  1  broke  my  collar-bone  in  that  cursed  steeple- 
chase. Egad,  I  am  gettting  too  heavy  and  growing  too 
old  for  such  schoolboy  pranks." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mrs.  Morton's  excellence,  and  I 
honour  your  motives  ;  still,  when  you  talk  of  her  gra- 
cing any  station,  you  must  not  forget,  my  dear  brother, 
that  she  will  be  no  more  received  as  Mrs.  Beaufort  than 
she  is  now  as  Mrs.  Morton." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Robert,  that  I  am  really  married  to 
her  already — that  she  would  never  have  left  her  home 
but  on  that  condition — that  we  were  married  the  very 
day  we  met  after  her  flight." 

Robert's  thin  lips  broke  into  a  slight  sneer  of  incredu- 
lity. 

"  My  dear  brother,  you  do  right  to  say  this  :  any  man 
in  your  situation  would.  But  I  know  that  my  uncle  took 
every  pains  to  ascertain  if  the  report  of  a  private  mar- 
riage were  true." 

"  And  you  helped  him  in  the  search.     Eh,  Bob  V 

Bob  slightly  blushed.     Philip  went  on  : 

•'  Ha,  ha,  to  be  sui'e  you  did ;  you  knew  that  such  a 
discovery  would  have  done  for  me  in  the  old  gentle- 
man's good  opinion.  But  I  blinded  you  both,  ha,  ha ! 
The  fact  is,  that  we  were  married  with  the  greatest 
privacy  ;  that  even  now,  I  own,  it  would  be  difficult  for 
Catharine  herself  to  establish  the  fact  unless  I  wished 
it.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  I  have  never  even  told 
her  where  I  keep  the  main  proof  of  the  marriage.  I 
induced  one  witness  to  leave  the  country,  the  other  must 
be  long  since  dead  :  my  poor  friend,  too,  Avho  officiated, 
is  no  more.    Even  the  register,  Bob,  the  register  itself 


34  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

has  been  destroyed ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  will 
prove  the  ceremony  and  clear  up  poor  Catharine's  fame  ; 
for  I  have  the  attested  copy  of  the  register  safe  and 
sound.  Catharine  not  married!  Why,  look  at  her, 
man !" 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  glanced  at  the  window  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  his  countenance  was  still  that  of  one  uncon- 
vinced. 

"  Well,  brother,"  said  he,  dipping  his  fingers  in  the 
water-glass,  "  it  is  not  for  me  to  contradict  you.  It  is  a 
very  curious  tale — parson  dead — witnesses  missing.  But 
still,  as  I  said  before,  if  you  are  resolved  on  a  pubhc 
marriage,  you  are  wise  to  insist  that  there  has  been  a 
previous  private  one.  Yet,  believe  me,  Philip,"  contin- 
ued Robert,  with  solemn  earnestness,  "  the  world — " 

"  D —  the  world !  What  do  I  care  for  the  world  ? 
We  don't  want  to  go  to  routs  and  balls,  and  give  din- 
ners to  fine  people.  I  shall  live  much  the  same  as  i 
have  always  done  ;  only  I  shall  now  keep  the  hounds — 
they  are  very  indifferently  kept  at  present — and  have  a 
yacht,  and  engage  the  best  masters  for  the  boys.  Phil 
wants  to  go  to  Eton ;  but  I  know  what  Eton  is.  Poor 
fellow !  his  feelings  might  be  hurt  there,  if  others  are 
as  skeptical  as  yourself.  I  suppose  my  old  friends  will 
not  be  less  civil  now  I  have  £20,000  a  year.  And  as 
for  the  society  of  women,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't 
care  a  rush  for  any  woman  but  Catharine :  poor  Katty !" 

"  Well,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own  affairs  : 
you  don't  misinterpret  my  motives  ]" 

"  My  dear  Bob,  no.  I  am  quite  sensible  how  kind  it 
is  in  you — a  man  of  your  starch  habits  and  strict  views 
— coming  here  to  pay  a  mark  of  respect  to  Kate  (Mr. 
Robert  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair)  even  before  you 
knew  of  the  private  marriage ;  and  I  am  sure  I  don't 
blame  you  for  never  having  done  it  before.  You  did 
quite  right  to  try  your  chance  with  my  uncle." 

Mr.  Robert  turned  in  his  chair  again,  still  more  unea- 
sily, and  cleared  his  voice  as  if  to  speak.  But  Philip 
tossed  off  his  wine,  and  proceeded  without  heeding  his 
brother, 

"  And  though  the  poor  old  man  does  not  seem  to  have 
liked  you  the  better  for  consulting  his  scruples,  yet  we 
must  make  up  for  the  partiality  of  his  will.  Let  me  see 
— what,  with  your  wife's  fortune,  you  muster  jC2000  a 
year  ?" 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  35 

"  Only  jClSOO,  Philip,  and  Arthur's  education  is  grow- 
ing expensive.  Next  year  he  goes  to  college.  He  is 
certainly  very  clever,  and  I  have  great  hopes — " 

"  That  he  will  do  honour  to  us  all — so  have  I.  He  >s 
a  noble  young  fellow  ;  and  I  think  my  Philip  may  find  & 
great  deal  to  learn  from  him.  Phil  is  a  sad,  idle  dog,  but 
with  a  devil  of  a  spirit,  and  sharp  as  a  needle.  I  wisb 
you  could  see  him  ride.  Well,  to  return  to  Arthur. 
Don't  trouble  yourself  about  his  education :  that  shall 
be  my  care.  He  shall  go  to  Christ  Church — a  gentle- 
man commoner,  of  course — and  when  he's  of  age  we'll 
get  him  into  Parliament.  Now  for  yourself.  Bob.  I 
shall  sell  the  town-house  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  what- 
ever it  brings  you  shall  have.  Besides  that,  Pll  add 
jGl500  a  year  to  your  jC1500  :  so  that's  said  and  done. 
Pshaw !  brothers  should  be  brothers.  Let's  come  out 
and  play  with  the  boys !" 

The  two  Beauforts  stepped  through  the  open  case- 
ment into  the  lawn. 

"You  look  pale,  Bob — all  you  London  fellows  do. 
As  for  me,  I  feel  as  strong  as  a  horse  ;  much  better  than 
when  I  was  one  of  your  gay  dogs,  straying  loose  about 
the  town !  'Gad  !  I  have  never  had  a  moment's  ill 
health,  except  a  fall  now  and  then  :  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
live  for  ever,  and  that's  the  reason  why  I  could  never 
make  a  will." 

"  Have  you  never,  then,  made  your  will  V 

"  Never  as  yet.  Faith,  till  now,  I  had  little  enough 
to  leave.  But,  now  that  all  this  great  Beaufort  property 
is  at  my  own  disposal,  I  must  think  of  Kate's  jointure. 
By  Jove  !  now  I  speak  of  it,  I  will  ride  to  *****  to-mor- 
row, and  consult  the  lawyer  there  both  about  the  will 
and  the  marriage.     You  will  stay  for  the  wedding  V 

"  Why,  I  jnust  go  into shire  to-morrow  evening, 

to  place  Arthur  with  his  tutor.  But  I'll  return  for  the 
wedding,  if  you  particularly  wish  it :  only  Mrs.  Beaufort 
is  a  woman  of  very  strict — " 

"  I  do  particularly  wish  it,"  interrupted  Philip,  grave- 
ly ;  "  for  I  desire,  for  Catharine's  sake,  that  you,  my  sole 
surviving  relation,  may  not  seem  to  withhold  your  coun- 
tenance from  an  act  of  justice  to  her.  And  as  for  your 
wife,  I  fancy  £1500  a  year  would  reconcile  her  to  my 
marrying  out  of  the  Penitentiary." 

IMr.  Robert  bowed  his  head,  coughed  huskily,  and  said, 
"I  appreciate  your  generous  affection,  Philip." 


36  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

The  next  morning,  while  the  elder  parties  were  still 
over  the  breakfast-table,  the  young  people  were  in  the 
grounds  :  it  was  a  lovely  day,  one  of  the  last  of  the  lux- 
uriant August ;  and  Arthur,  as  he  looked  round,  thought 
he  had  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  place.  It  was,  in- 
deed, just  the  spot  to  captivate  a  youthful  and  suscepti- 
ble fancy.  The  village  of  Feraside,  though  in  one  of 
the  counties  adjoining  Middlesex,  and  as  near  to  London 
as  the  owner's  passionate  pursuits  of  the  field  would 
permit,  was  yet  as  rural  and  sequestered  as  if  a  hundred 
miles  distant  from  the  smoke  of  the  huge  city.  Though 
the  dwelling  was  called  a  cottage,  Philip  had  enlarged 
the  original  modest  building  into  a  villa  of  some  preten- 
sions. On  either  side  a  graceful  and  well-proportioned 
portico  stretched  verandahs,  covered  with  roses  and 
clematis  ;  to  the  right  extended  a  range  of  costly  con- 
servatories, terminating  in  vistas  of  trellis-work,  which 
formed  those  elegant  alleys  called  roseries,  and  served  to 
screen  the  more  useful  gardens  from  view.  The  lawn, 
smooth  and  even,  was  studded  with  American  plants  and 
shrubs  in  flower,  and  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  small 
lake,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  which  limes  and  cedars 
threw  their  shadows  over  the  clear  waves.  On  the  oth- 
er side,  a  light  fence  separated  the  grounds  from  a  large 
paddock,  in  which  three  or  four  hunters  grazed  in  indo- 
lent enjoyment.  It  was  one  of  those  cottages  which 
bespeak  the  ease  and  luxury  not  often  found  in  more  os- 
tentatious mansions  :  an  abode  which  the  visiter  of  six- 
teen contemplates  with  vague  notions  of  poetry  and 
love — which  at  forty  he  might  tliink  dull  and  d — d  ex^ 
pensive — which  at  sixty  he  would  pronounce  to  be  damp 
in  winter,  and  full  of  earwigs  in  the  summer.  Master 
Philip  was  leaning  on  his  favourite  gun ;  Master  Sidney 
was  chasing  a  poacock  butterfly ;  Arthur  was  silently 
gazing  on  the  shining  lake  and  the  still  foliage  that 
drooped  over  its  surface.  In  the  countenance  of  this 
young  man  there  was  something  that  excited  a  certain 
interest.  He  was  less  handsome  than  Philip,  but  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  more  prepossessing.  There 
was  something  of  pride  in  the  forehead ;  but  of  good^ 
nature,  not  unniixed  with  irresolution  and  weakness,  in 
tlie  curves  of  the  mouth.  He  was  more  delicate  of 
frame  than  Philip,  and  the  colour  of  his  complexion  was 
not  that  of  a  robust  constitution.    His  movements  were 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  37 

graceful  and  self-possessed,  and  he  had  Ais  father's 
sweetness  of  voice. 

"  This  is  really  beautiful !    I  envy  you,  cousin  Philip." 

"  Has  not  your  father  got  a  country-house  V 

'*  No :  we  live  either  in  I^iondon  or  at  some  hot,  crowd- 
ed watering-place." 

"  Yes  ;  this  is  veiy  nice  during  the  shooting  and  hunt- 
ing season.  But  my  old  nurse  says  we  shall  have  a 
much  finer  place  now.  I  liked  this  very  well  till  I  saw 
Lord  Belville's  place.  But  it  is  very  unpleasant  not  to 
have  the  finest  house  in  the  county  :  aut  Casar  aut  nihil 
— that's  my  motto.  Ah !  do  you  see  that  swallow  ? 
I'll  bet  you  a  guinea  I  hit  it." 

"  No,  poor  thing  !  don't  hurt  it."  But,  ere  the  remon- 
strance was  uttered,  the  bird  lay  quivering  on  the  ground. 

"  Jt  is  just  September,  and  one  must  keep  one's  hand 
in,"  said  Philip,  as  he  reloaded  his  gun. 

To  Arthur  this  action  seemed  a  wanton  cruelty;  it 
was  rather  the  wanton  recklessness  which  belongs  to  a 
wild  boy  accustomed  to  gratify  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  the  recklessness  which  is  not  cruelty  in  the  boy, 
but  which  prosperity  may  pamper  into  cruelty  in  the 
man.  And  scarce  had  he  reloaded  his  gun  before  the 
neigh  of  a  young  colt  came  from  a  neighbouring  pad- 
dock, and  Philip  bounded  to  the  fence.  "  He  calls  me, 
poor  fellow ;  you  shall  see  him  feed  from  my  hand, 
flun  in  for  a  piece  of  bread — a  large  piece,  Sidney." 
The  boy  and  the  animal  seemed  to  understand  each  oth- 
er. "  I  see  you  don't  like  horses,"  he  said  to  Arthur. 
"As  for  me,  I  love  dogs,  horses — every  dumb  creature." 

''  Except  swallows !"  said  Arthur,  with  a  half  smile, 
and  a  little  surprised  at  the  inconsistency  of  the  boast. 

"  Oh  !  that  is  sport — all  fair  :  it  is  not  to  hurt  the 
pwallow — it  is  to  obtain  skill,"  said  Philip,  colouring ; 
and  then,  as  if  not  quite  easy  with  his  own  definition,  he 
turned  away  abruptly. 

"  This  is  dull  work  :  suppose  we  fish.  By  Jove  !  (he 
had  caught  his  father's  expletive),  that  blockhead  has  put 
the  tent  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  lake,  after  all.  Holla, 
you,  sir !"  and  the  unhappy  gardener  looked  up  from  his 
flower-beds  ;  "what  ails  you  ?  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
tell  my  father  of  you  :  you  grow  stupider  every  day.  I 
told  you  to  put  the  tent  under  the  lime-trees." 

"We  could  not  manage  it,  sir;  the  boughs  were  in 
^he  way." 

Vol,  J,-rP 


38  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  And  wliy  did  not  you  cut  the  boughs,  blockhead  1" 

"  I  did  not  dare  do  so,  sir,  without  master's  orders," 
said  the  man,  doggedly. 

"  My  orders  are  sufficient,  I  should  think  :  so  none  of 
your  impertinence,"  cried  Phihp,  with  a  raised  colour; 
and  lifting  his  hand,  in  which  he  held  his  ramrod,  he 
shook  it  menacingly  over  the  gardener's  head :  "  I've  a 
great  mind  to — " 

"  What's  the  matter,  Philip  ?"  cried  the  good-humour- 
ed voice  of  his  father :  "  fy !" 

"  This  fellow  does  not  mind  what  I  say,  sir." 

"  I  did  not  like  to  cut  the  boughs  of  the  lime-trees 
Avithout  your  orders,  sir,"  said  the  gardener, 

"  No,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  cut  them.  You  should 
consult  me  there,  Master  Philip ;"  and  the  father  shook 
him  by  the  collar  with  a  good-natured  and  affectionate, 
but  rough  sort  of  caress. 

"  Be  quiet,  father !"  said  the  boy,  petulantly  and  proud- 
ly, "  or,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  but  one  which 
showed  emotion,  "  my  cousin  may  think  you  mean  less 
kindly  than  you  always  do,  sir." 

The  father  was  touched.  "  Go  and  cut  the  lime- 
boughs,  John ;  and  always  do  as  Mr.  Philip  tells  you." 

The  mother  was  behind,  and  she  sighed  audibly,  "Ah ! 
dearest,  I  fear  you  will  spoil  him." 

"  Is  he  not  your  son — and  do  we  not  owe  him  the 
more  respect  for  having  hitherto  allowed  others  to — " 

He  stopped,  and  the  mother  could  say  no  more.  And 
thus  it  was  that  this  boy  of  powerful  character  and 
strong  passions  had,  from  motives  the  most  amiable, 
been  pampered  from  the  darhng  into  the  despot, 

"  And  now,  Kate,  I  will,  as  1  told  you  last  night,  ride 

over  to  and  fix  tlie  earliest  day  for  our  marriage. 

I  will  ask  the  lawyer  to  dine  here,  to  talk  about  the 
proper  steps  for  proving  the  private  one." 

"  Will  that  be  difficult  ]"  asked  Catharine,  with  natural 
anxiety. 

"  No ;  for,  if  you  remember,  I  had  the  precaution  to 
get  an  examined  copy  of  the  register ;  otherwise,  I  own 
to  you,  1  sliould  have  been  alarmed.  I  don't  know  what 
has  become  of  Smith.  1  heard  some  time  since  from 
his  father  that  he  had  left  the  colony ;  and  (1  never  told 
you  before — it  would  have  made  you  uneasy)  once,  a 
few  years  ago,  when  my  uncle  again  got  it  into  his  head 
that  we  might  be  married,  1  was  afraid  poor  Caleb's  sue- 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  39 

cesser  might,  by  chance,  betray  us.     So  I  went  over  to 

A myself,  being  near  it  when  I  was  staying  with 

Lord  C ,  in  order  to  see  how  far  it  might  be  neces- 
sary to  secure  the  parson ;  and,  only  think  !  I  found  an 
accident  had  happened  to  the  register :  so,  as  the  cler- 
gyman could  know  nothing,  I  kept  my  own  council. 
How  lucky  I  have  the  copy  !  No  doubt  the  lawyer  will 
set  all  to  rights ;  and,  while  I  am  making  settlements,  I 
may  as  well  make  my  will.  I  have  plenty  for  both  boys, 
but  the  dark  one  must  be  the  heir.  Does  he  not  look 
born  to  be  an  eldest  son!" 

"  Ah,  Philip !" 

"  Pshaw !  one  don't  die  the  sooner  for  making  a  will. 
Have  I  the  air  of  a  man  in  a  consumption  !"  and  the 
sturdy  sportsman  glanced  complacently  at  the  strength 
and  symmetry  of  his  manly  limbs.  "  Come,  Phil,  let's 
go  to  the  stables.  Now,  Robert,  I  will  show  you  what 
is  better  worth  seeing  than  those  miserable  dower-beds." 
So  saying,  Mr.  Beaufort  led  the  way  to  the  courtyard  at 
the  back  of  the  cottage.  Catharine  and  Sidney  remain- 
ed on  the  lawn,  the  rest  followed  the  host.  The  grooms, 
of  whom  Beaufort  was  the  idol,  hastened  to  show  how 
well  the  horses  had  thriven  in  his  absence. 

"  Do  see  how  Brown  Bess  has  come  on,  sir;  but,  to 
be  sure,  Master  Piiilip  keeps  her  in  exercise.  Ah,  sir, 
he  will  be  as  good  a  rider  as  your  honour  one  of  these 
days." 

"  He  ought  to  be,  Tom,  for  I  think  he'll  never  have 
my  weight  to  carry.  Well,  saddle  Brown  Bess  for  Mr. 
Philip.  What  horse  shall  I  take  ?  Ah !  here's  my  old 
friend  Puppet !" 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Puppet,  sir ;  he's  off 
his  feed  and  turned  sulky.  I  tried  him  over  the  bar  yes- 
terday, but  he  was  quite  restiff  like." 

"The  devil  he  was!  So,  so,  old  boy,  you  shall  go 
over  the  six-barred  gate  to-day,  or  we'll  know  why." 
And  Mr.  Beaufort  patted  the  sleek  neck  of  his  favourite 
hunter.     "  Put  the  saddle  on  him,  Tom." 

"  Yes,  your  honour.  I  sometimes  think  he  is  hurt  in 
the  loins  somehow :  he  don't  take  to  his  leaps  kindly, 
and  he  always  tries  to  bile  when  we  bridles  him.  Be 
quiet,  sir!" 

'•  Only  his  airs,"  said  Philip.  "  I  did  not  know  this, 
or  I  would  have  taken  him  over  the  gate.  Why  did  not 
you  tell  me,  Tom  ?" 


40  >fIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  Lord  love  you,  sir  !  because  you  have  such  a  spur* 
tet ;  and  if  anything  had  come  to  you — " 

"  Quite  right ;  you  are  not  weight  enough  for  Puppet^ 
my  boy ;  and  he  never  did  like  any  one  to  back  him  but 
myself.  What  say  you,  brother ;  will  you  ride  with 
us?" 

"  No,  I  must  go  to to-day  with  Arthur.     I  have 

engaged  the  posthorses  at  two  o'clock ;  but  I  shall  be 
with  you  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  You  see  his  tu- 
tor expects  him ;  and  as  he  is  backward  in  his  mathe- 
matics, he  has  no  time  to  lose." 

"  Well,  then,  good-by,  nephew  !"  and  Beaufort  slipped 
a  pocket-book  into  the  boy's  hand.  "  Tush  !  whenever 
you  want  money,  don't  trouble  your  father — write  to 
me  ;  we  shall  be  always  glad  to  see  you  ;  and  you  must 
teach  Philip  to  like  his  book  a  little  better — eh,  Phil  ?" 

"  No,  father,  /  shall  be  rich  enough  to  do  without 
books,"  said  Philip,  rather  coarsely  ;  but  then,  observing 
the  heightened  colour  of  his  cousin,  he  went  up  to  him, 
and  with  a  generous  impulse  said,  "  Arthur,  you  admired 
^his  gun :  pray  accept  it.  Nay,  don't  be  shy  ;  I  can 
have  as  many  as  I  like  for  the  asking :  you're  not  so 
ivell  off,  you  know." 

The  intention  was  kind,  but  the  manner  was  so  pat'^ 
ronising  that  Arthur  felt  offended.  He  put  back  the 
gun,  and  said  dryly,  "I  shall  have  no  occasion  for  a  gun^ 
thank  you." 

If  Arthur  was  offended  by  the  offer,  Philip  was  much 
more  offended  by  the  refusal.  "  As  j'^ou  hke  :  I  hate 
pride,"  said  he ;  and  he  gave  the  gim  to  the  groom  as  he 
Taulted  into  his  saddle  with  the  lightness  of  a  young 
Mercury.     "  Come,  father !" 

Mr.  Beaufort  had  now  mounted  his  favourite  hunter  i 
a  large,  powerful  horse,  well  known  for  its  prowess  in 
the  field.  The  rider  trotted  him  once  or  twice  through 
the  spacious  yard. 

"  Nonsense,  Tom :  no  more  hurt  in  the  loins  than  I 
am.  Open  that  gate;  we  will  go  across  the  paddock, 
and  take  the  gate  yonder — the  old  six-bar — ch,  Phil  1" 

"  Capital !  to  be  sure  !" 

The  gate  was  opened  ;  the  grooms  stood  watchful  to 
see  the  leap  ;  and  a  kindred  curiosity  arrested  Robert 
Beaufort  and  his  son. 

How  well  they  looked,  those  two  horsemen  ;  the 
ease,  lightues?,  spirit  of  the  one,  with  the  fine-limbed 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  41 

and  fiery  steed  that  literally  "  bounded  beneath  him  as 
a  barb,"  seemingly  as  gay,  as  ardent,  and  as  haughty  as 
the  boy-rider.  And  the  manly  and  almost  Herculean 
form  of  the  elder  Beaufort,  which,  from  the  buoyancy 
of  its  movements,  and  the  supple  grace  that  belongs  to 
the  perfect  mastership  of  any  athletic  art,  possessed  an 
elegance  and  dignity,  especially  on  horseback,  which 
rarely  accompanies  proportions  equally  sturdy  and  ro- 
bust. There  was,  indeed,  something  knightly  and  chiv- 
alrous in  the  bearing  of  the  elder  Beaufort ;  in  his  hand- 
some aquiline  features,  the  erectness  of  his  mien,  the 
very  wave  of  his  hand  as  he  spurred  from  the  yard. 
I  "  What  a  fine-looking  fellow  my  uncle  is  !'"  said  Ar- 
thur, with  involuntary  admiration. 

"  Ay,  an  excellent  life — amazingly  strong !"  returned 
the  pale  father,  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"  Philip,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  they  cantered  across 
the  paddock,  "  I  think  the  gate  is  too  much  for  you.  I 
■will  just  take  Puppet  over,  and  then  we  will  open  it  for 
you." 

"  Pooh,  my  dear  father !  you  don't  know  how  I'm  im- 
proved!" And  slackening  the  rein,  and  touching  the 
side  of  his  horse,  the  young  rider  darted  forward  and 
cleared  the  gate,  which  was  of  no  common  height,  with 
an  ease  that  extorted  a  loud  bravo  from  the  proud 
father. 

"  Now,  Puppet,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  spurring  his  own 
horse.  The  animal  cantered  towards  the  gate,  and  then 
suddenly  turned  round  with  an  impatient  and  angry 
snort.  "  For  shame,  Puppet !  for  shame,  old  boy  !"  said 
the  sportsman,  wheeling  him  again  to  the  barrier.  The 
horse  shook  his  head  as  if  in  remonstrance  ;  but  the 
spur,  vigorously  applied,  showed  him  that  his  master 
would  not  listen  to  his  mute  reasonings.  He  bounded 
forward — made  at  the  gate — struck  his  hoofs  against 
the  top  bar — fell  forward,  and  threw  his  rider  head  fore- 
most on  the  road  beyond.  The  horse  rose  instantly — 
not  so  the  master.  The  son  dismounted,  alarmed  and 
terrified.  His  father  was  speechless  !  and  blood  gushed 
from  the  mouth  and  nostrils  as  the  head  drooped  heavily 
on  the  boy's  breast.  The  by-standers  had  witnessed 
the  fall — they  crowded  to  the  spot — they  took  the  fallen 
man  from  the  weak  arms  of  the  son — the  head  groom 
examined  him  with  the  eye  of  one  who  had  picked  up 
science  from  his  experience  in  such  casualties. 
D2 


4^  NIGHT   AND    MORNlNG. 

"  Speak,  brother !  where  are  you  hurt  1"  exclaimed 
Robert  Beaufort. 

"  He  will  never  speak  more !"  said  the  groom,  burst- 
ing into  tears.     "  His  neck  is  broken  !" 

"  Send  for  the  nearest  surgeon,"  cried  Mr.  Robert. 
"  Good  God  !  boy  !  don't  mount  that  devihsh  horse  !" 

But  Arthur  had  already  leaped  on  the  unhappy  steed 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  this  appalhng  affliction; 
"  Which  way  ]" 

"  Straight  on  to  *****,  only  two  miles  ;  every  one 
knows  Mr.  Powis's  house,  God  bless  you !"  said  the 
groom. 

Arthur  vanished. 

"  Lift  him  carefully,  and  take  him  to  the  house,"  said 
Mr.  Robert.     "  My  poor  brother  1  ray  dear  brother !" 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  cry — a  single,  shrill,  heart- 
breaking cry— and  Phihp  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

No  one  heeded  him  at  that  hour ;  no  one  heeded  the 
fatherless  bastard.  "  Gently,  gently,"  said  Mr.  Robert, 
as  he  followed  the  servants  and  their  load.  And  he 
then  muttered  to  himself,  and  his  sallow  cheek  grew 
bright,  and  his  breath  came  short :  "  He  has  made  no 
will !  he  never  made  a  will !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

'*  Constance.    Oh,  boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 
.    .    .    What  becomes  of  me  ?" 

King  John. 

It  was  three  days  after  the  death  of  Philip  Beaufort 
• — for  the  surgeon  arrived  only  to  confirm  the  judgment 
of  the  groom :  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  cottage,  the 
windows  closed,  lay  tlie  body  in  its  coffin,  the  lid  not 
yet  nailed  down.  Tlierc,  prostrate  on  the  floor,  tearless^ 
speechless,  was  the  miserable  Catharine ;  poor  Sidney, 
too  young  to  comprehend  all  his  loss,  sobbing  at  hef 
side  ;  while  Philip,  apart,  seated  beside  the  coffin,  ga- 
zed abstractedly  on  tliat  cold,  rigid  face,  which  had  nev- 
er known  one  frown  for  his  boyish  follies. 

In  another  room,  that  had  been  appropriated  to  the 
lato  ownerj  called  his  study>  sat  Robert  Beaufort.     Ev- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  43 

erything  in  this  room  spoke  of  the  deceased.  Partially- 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  it  communicated 
by  a  winding  staircase  with  a  chamber  above,  to  which 
Philip  had  been  wont  to  betake  himself  whenever  he  re- 
turned late  and  over-exhilarated  from  some  rural  feast 
crowning  a  hard  day's  hunt.  Above  a  quaint  oldfash- 
ioned  bureau  of  Dutch  workmanship  (which  Philip  had 
picked  up  at  a  sale  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  marriage) 
was  a  portrait  of  Catharine,  taken  in  the  bloom  of  her 
youth.  On  a  peg  on  the  door  that  led  to  the  stair- 
case still  hung  his  rough  driving-coat.  The  window 
commanded  the  view  of  the  paddock,  in  which  the 
worn-out  hunter  or  the  unbroken  colt  grazed  at  will. 
Around  the  walls  of  the  "  study"  (a  strange  misno* 
mer!)  hung  prints  of  celebrated  fox-ihunts  and  renown- 
ed steeple-chases.  Guns,  fishing-rods,  and  foxes'  brush- 
es, ranged  with  a  sportsman's  neatness,  supplied  the 
place  of  books.  On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  cigar-case, 
a  well-worn  volume  on  the  Veterinary  Art,  and  the 
last  number  of  The  Sporting  Magazine.  And  in  that 
room — thus  witnessing  of  the  hardy,  masculine,  rural  life 
that  had  passed  away — sallow,  stooping,  town-worn, 
sat,  I  say,  Robert  Beaufort,  the  heir-at-law — alone :  for 
the  very  day  of  his  death  he  had  remanded  his  son  home 
with  the  letter  that  announced  to  his  wife  the  change  in 
their  fortunes,  and  directed  her  to  send  his  lawyer  post- 
haste to  the  house  of  death.  The  bureau,  and  the  draw- 
ers, and  the  boxes  which  contained  the  papers  of  the  de- 
ceased were  open ;  their  contents  had  been  ransacked  ; 
no  certificate  of  the  private  marriage,  no  hint  of  such  an 
event ;  not  a  paper  found  to  signify  the  last  wishes  of 
the  rich  dead  man.  He  had  died  and  made  no  sign.  Mr. 
Robert  Beaufort's  countenance  was  still  and  composed. 

A  knock  at  the  door  was  heard  :  the  lawyer  entered. 

"  Sir,  the  undertakers  are  here,  and  Mr.  Greaves  has 
ordered  the  bells  to  be  rung :  at  three  o'clock  he  will 
read  the  service." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Black  well,  for  taking  these  mal- 
ancholy  ofiices  on  yourself.  My  poor  brother !  It  is  so 
sudden !  But  the  funeral,  you  say,  ought  to  take  place 
to-day  1" 

"  The  weather  is  so  warm  !"  said  the  lawyer,  wiping 
his  forehead.     As  he  spoke,  the  death-bell  was  heard. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  It  wouM  have  been  a  terrible  shock  to  Mrs.  Morton 


44  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

if  she  had  been  his  wife,"  observed  Mr.  Blackwell. 
"  But  I  suppose  persons  of  tliat  kind  have  very  httle 
feeUng.  I  must  say  that  it  was  very  fortunate  for  the 
family  that  the  event  happened  before  Mr.  Beaufort  was 
wheedled  into  so  improper  a  marriage." 

"  It  was  fortunate,  Blackwell.  Have  you  ordered  the 
posthorses  1  I  shall  start  immediately  after  the  funer- 
al." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  with  the  cottage,  sir  V 

"You  may  advertise  it  for  sale." 

"  And  Mrs.  Morton  and  the  boys  V 

"  Hum — we  will  consider.  She  was  a  tradesman's 
daughter.  1  think  I  ought  to  provide  for  her  suitably, 
ehr' 

"  It  is  more  than  the  world  could  expect  from  you, 
sir  :  it  is  very  different  frorn  a  wife." 

"  Oh,  very !  very  much  so,  indeed !  Just  ring  for  a 
lighted  candle  ;  we  will  seal  up  these  boxes.  And — I 
think  I  could  take  a  sandwich.     Poor  Philip !" 

The  funeral  was  over — the  dead  shovelled  away. 
What  a  strange  thing  it  does  seem,  that  that  very  form 
which  we  prized  so  charily,  for  which  we  prayed  the 
winds  to  be  gentle,  which  we  lapped  from  the  cold  in 
our  arms,  from  whose  footstep  we  would  have  removed 
a  stone,  should  be  suddenly  thrust  out  of  sight — an 
abomination  that  the  earth  must  not  look  upon — a  des- 
picable loathsomeness,  to  be  concealed  and  to  be  forgot- 
ten !  And  this  same  composition  of  bone  and  muscle, 
that  was  yesterday  so  strong — which  men  respected,  and 
women  loved,  and  children  clung  to — to-day  so  lament- 
ably powerless,  unable  to  defend  or  protect  those  who 
lay  nearest  to  its  heart ;  its  riches  wrested  from  it,  its 
wishes  spat  upon,  its  influence  expiring  with  its  last 
sigh  !  A  breath  from  its  lips  making  all  that  mighty  dif- 
ference between  what  it  was  and  what  it  is  ! 

The  posthorses  were  at  the  door  as  the  funeral  pro- 
cession returned  to  the  house. 

Mr.  Hobcrt  Beaufort  bowed  slightly  to  Mrs.  Morton, 
and  said,  with  his  pocket-kandherchief  still  before  his 
eyes, 

"  I  will  write  to  you  in  a  few  days,  ma'am  ;  you  will 
find  tlmt  I  shall  not  forget  you.  The  cottage  will  be 
sokl ;  but  we  sha'n't  hurry  you.  Good-by,  ma'am ; 
good-by,  my  boys  ;"  and  he  patted  his  nephews  on  the 
head. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  45 

Philip  winced  aside,  and  scowled  haughtily  at  his  un- 
cle, who  muttered  to  himself,  "  That  boy  will  come  to 
no  good !"  Little  Sidney  put  his  hand  into  the  rich 
man's,  and  looked  up  pleadingly  into  his  face :  "  Can't 
you  say  something  pleasant  to  poor  mamma,  Uncle 
Robert  ?" 

Mr.  Beaufort  hemmed  huskily  and  entered  the  britska 
— it  had  been  his  brother's :  the  lawyer  followed,  and 
they  drove  away. 

A  week  after  the  funeral,  Philip  stole  from  the  house 
into  the  conservatory  to  gather  some  fruit  for  his  moth- 
er :  she  had  scarcely  touched  food  since  Beaufort's 
death.  She  was  worn  to  a  shadow  :  her  hair  had  turn- 
ed gray.  Now  she  had  at  last  found  tears,  and  she 
wept  noiselessly  but  unceasingly. 

The  boy  had  plucked  some  grapes,  and  placed  them 
carefully  in  his  basket :  he  was  about  to  select  a  necta- 
rine that  seemed  riper  than  the  rest,  when  his  hand  was 
roughly  seized,  and  the  gruff  voice  of  John  Green,  the 
gardener,  exclaimed, 

"  What  are  you  about.  Master  Philip  ?  You  must  not 
touch  them  'ere  fruit!" 

"  How  dare  you,  fellow  !"  cried  the  young  gentleman, 
in  a  tone  of  equal  astonishment  and  wrath. 

"  None  of  your  airs.  Master  Philip  !  What  I  means 
is,  that  some  great  folks  are  coming  to  look  at  the  place 
to-morrow,  and  I  won't  have  my  show  of  fruit  spoiled 
by  being  pawed  about  by  the  like  of  you  :  so,  that's  plain, 
Master  Phihp !" 

The  boy  g-rew  very  pale,  but  remained  silent.  The 
gardener,  delighted  to  retaUate  the  insolence  he  had  re- 
ceived, continued, 

"  You  need  not  go  for  to  look  so  spiteful,  master ; 
you  are  not  the  great  man  you  thought  you  were  ;  you 
are  nobody  now,  and  so  you  will  find  ere  long.  So, 
march  out,  if  you  please  :  1  wants  to  lock  up  the  glass." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  lad  roughly  by  the  arm ; 
but  Philip,  the  most  irascible  of  mortals,  was  strong  for 
his  years,  and  fearless  as  a  young  lion.  He  caught  up 
a  watering-pot,  which  the  gardener  had  deposited  while 
he  expostulated  with  his  late  tyrant,  and  struck  the 
man  across  the  face  with  it  so  violently  and  so  sudden- 
ly that  he  fell  back  over  the  beds,  and  the  glass  crackled 
and  shivered  under  him.  Philip  did  not  wait  for  the  foe 
to  recover  his  equilibrium  ;  3Ut,  taking  up  his  grapes,  and 


46  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

possessing  himself  quietly  of  the  disputed  nectarine, 
quitted  the  spot ;  and  the  gardener  did  not  think  it  pru- 
dent to  pursue  him.     To  boys,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances— boys  who  have  buffeted  their  way  through  a 
scolding  nursery,  a  wrangling  family,  or  a  public  school 
— there  would  have  been  nothing  in  this  squabble  to 
dwell  on  the  memory  or  vibrate  on  the  nerves  after  tli>j 
first  burst  of  passion ;  but  to  Philip  Beaufort  it  was  an 
era  in  life  ;  it  was  the  first  insult  he  had  ever  received  ; 
it  was  his  initiation  into  that  changed,  rough,  and  terrible 
career,  to  which  the  spoiled  darling  of  vanity  and  love 
vfas  henceforth  condemned.      His  pride   and  his  self- 
esteem  had  incurred  a  fearful  shock.     He  entered  the 
house,  and  a  sickness  came  over  him ;  his  limbs  trem- 
bled ;  he  sat  down  in  the  hall,  and,  placing  the  fruit  be- 
side him,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  wept. 
Those  were  not  the  tears  of  a  boy,  drawn  from  a  shal- 
low source  ;  they  were  the  burning,  agonizing,  reluctant 
tears  that  men  shed,  wrung  from  the  heart  as  if  it  were 
its  blood.     He  had  never  been  sent  to  school,  lest  he 
should  meet  with  mortification.      He  had  had  various 
tutors,  trained  to  show  rather  than  to  exact  respect ; 
one  succeeding  another  at  his  own  whim  and  caprice. 
His  natural  quickness,  and  a  very  strong,  hard,  inquisi- 
tive turn  of  mind,  had  enabled  him,  however,  to  pick  up 
more  knowledge,  though  of  a  desultory  and  miscella- 
neous nature,  than  boys  of  his  age  generally  possess ; 
and  his  roving,  independent,  out-of-door  existence  had 
served  to  ripen  his  understanding.     He  had  certainly,  in 
spite  of  every  precaution,  arrived  at  some,  though  not 
very  distinct,  notions  of  his  peculiar  position  ;  but  none 
of  its  inconveniences  had  visited  him  till  that  day.     He 
began  now  to  turn  his  eyes  to  the  future ;  and  vague  and 
dark  forebodings — a  consciousness  of  the  shelter,  the 
protector,  the  station  he  had  lost  in  his  father's  death — 
crept  coldly  over  him.     While  thus  musing,  a  ring  was 
heard  at  the  bell — he  lifted  his  head — it  was  the  postman 
with  a  letter.     Philip  hastily  rose,  and,  averting  his  face, 
on  which  the  tears  were  not  yet  dried,  took  the  letter ; 
and  then,  snatching  up  his  little  basket  of  fruit,  repaired 
to  his  mother's  room. 

The  shutters  were  half  closed  on  the  bright  day — oh, 
what  a  mockery  is  there  in  the  smile  of  the  happy  sun 
when  it  shines  on  the  wretched !  Mrs.  Morton  sat,  or, 
rather,  crouched  in  a  distant  corner,  her  streaming  eyes 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  47 

fixed  on  vacancy — listless,  drooping — a  very  image  of 
desolate  wo :  and  Sidney  was  weaving  flower-chains  at 
her  feet. 

"  Mamma !  mother !"  whispered  Philip,  as  he  threw 
his  arms  round  her  neck  ;  "  look  up  !  look  up !  My  heart 
breaks  to  see  you.  Do  taste  this  fruit :  you  will  die  too 
if  you  go  on  thus  ;  and  what  will  become  of  us — of  Sid- 
ney ?" 

Mrs.  Morton  did  look  up  vaguely  into  his  face,  and 
strove  to  smile. 

"  See,  too,  I  haye  brought  you  a  letter ;  perhaps  good 
news :  shall  I  break  the  seal  ]" 

Mrs.  Morton  shook  her  head  gently,  and  took  the  let- 
ter— alas  !  how  different  from  that  one  which  Sidney 
had  placed  in  her  hands  not  two  short  weeks  since :  it 
was  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's  handwriting.  She  shuddered 
and  laid  it  down.  And  then  there  suddenly,  and  for  the 
first  time,  flashed  across  her  the  sense  of  her  strange 
position — the  dread  of  the  future.  What  were  her  sons 
to  be  henceforth  !  What  herself  1  Whatever  the  sanc- 
tity of  her  marriage,  the  law  might  fail  her.  At  the  dis- 
position of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  the  fate  of  three  lives 
might  depend.  She  gasped  for  breath,  again  look  up 
the  letter,  and  hurried  over  the  contents  :  they  ran  thus  : 

"  Dear  Madam, — Knowing  that  you  must  naturally  be 
anxious  as  to  the  future  prospects  of  your  children  and 
yourself,  left,  by  my  poor  brother,  destitute  of  all  pro- 
vision, 1  take  the  earliest  opportunity  which  it  seems  to 
me  that  propriety  and  decorum  allow,  to  apprize  you  of 
my  intentions.  I  need  not  say  that,  properly  speaking, 
you  can  have  no  kind  of  claim  upon  the  relations  of  my 
late  brother;  nor  will  I  hurt  your  feelings  by  those  mor- 
al reflections  which  at  this  season  of  sorrow  cannot,  I 
hope,  fail  involuntarily  to  force  themselves  upon  you. 
Without  more  than  this  mere  allusion  to  your  peculiar 
connexion  with  my  brother,  I  may,  however,  be  per- 
mitted to  add,  that  that  connexion  tended  very  materially 
to  separate  him  from  the  legitimate  branches  of  his  fam- 
ily ;  and  in  consulting  with  them  as  to  a  provision  for 
you  and  your  children,  I  find  that,  besides  scruples  that 
are  to  be  respected,  some  natural  degree  of  soreness  ex- 
ists upon  tlieir  minds.  Out  of  regard,  however,  to  my 
poor  brother  (though  I  saw  very  little  of  him  of  late 
years),  I  am  willing  to  waive  those  feelings  which,  as  a 


48  KIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

father  and  a  husband,  you  may  conceive  that  I  share 
with  the  rest  of  my  family.  You  will  probably  now  de- 
cide on  living  with  some  of  your  own  relations ;  and 
that  you  may  not  be  entirely  a  burden  to  them,  I  beg  to 
say  that  I  shall  allow  you  a  hundred  a  year ;  paid,  if  you 
prefer  it,  quarterly.  You  may  also  select  certain  arti- 
cles of  linen  and  plate,  of  which  I  enclose  a  list.  With 
regard  to  your  sons,  I  have  no  objection  to  place  them 
at  a  grammar-school,  and,  at  a  proper  age,  to  apprentice 
them  to  any  trade  suitable  to  their  future  station,  in  the 
choice  of  which  your  own  family  can  give  you  the  best 
advice,  If  they  conduct  themselves  properly,  they  may 
always  depend  on  my  protection.  I  do  not  wish  to  hur- 
ry your  movements ;  but  it  will  probably  be  painful  to 
you  to  remain  longer  than  you  can  help  in  a  place 
crowded  with  unpleasant  recollections  ;  and  as  the  cot^ 
tage  is  to  be  sold — indeed,  my  brother-in-law.  Lord  Lil- 
burne,  thinks  it  would  suit  him — you  will  be  liable  to  the 
interruption  of  strangers  to  see  it ;  and,  indeed,  your 
prolonged  residence  at  Fernside,  you  must  be  sensible, 
is  rather  an  obstacle  to  the  sale.  I  beg  to  enclose  you 
&  draught  for  jCIOO  to  pay  any  present  expenses  ;  and 
to  request,  when  you  are  settled,  to  know  where  the 
first  quarter  shall  be  paid. 

"I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Jackson  (who,  I  think,  is  the  bail- 
iff) to  detail  my  instnictions  as  to  selling  the  crops,  &c., 
and  discharging  the  servants,  so  that  you  may  have  no 
farther  trouble. 

"  I  am,  madam, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  Robert  Beaufort, 

'  Berkeley  Square,  September  12,  18 — " 

The  letter  fell  from  Catharine's  hands.  Her  grief 
was  changed  to  indignation  and  scorn. 

•'  The  insolent !"  she  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  This  to  me !  to  me !  the  wife,  the  lawful  wife  of  his 
brother  !  the  wedded  mother  of  his  brother's  children  !" 

"  Say  that  again,  mother  !  again — again  !"  cried  PhU» 
ip,  in  a  loud  voice.     "  His  wife!  wedded  !" 

"  I  swear  it,"  said  Catharine,  solemnly.  "  I  kept  the 
secret  for  your  father's  sake.  Now,  for  yours,  the 
truth  must  be  proclaimed." 

♦'  Thank  God !   thank  God  !"   murmured  Philip)  in  p. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  49 

quivering  voice,  throwing  his  arms  round  his  brother. 
"  We  have  no  brand  on  our  names,  Sidney." 

At  those  accents,  so  full  of  suppressed  joy  and  pride, 
the  mother  felt  at  once  all  that  her  son  had  suspected 
and  concealed.  She  felt  that  beneath  his  haughty  and 
wayward  character  there  had  lurked  delicate  and  gener- 
ous forbearance  for  her ;  that  from  his  equivocal  posi- 
tion his  very  faults  might  have  arisen ;  and  a  pang  of 
remorse  for  her  long  sacrifice  of  the  children  to  the  fa- 
ther shot  through  her  heart.  It  was  followed  by  a  fear, 
an  appalling  fear,  more  painful  than  the  remorse.  The 
proofs  that  were  to  clear  herself  and  them  !  The  words 
of  her  husband  that  last  awful  morning  rang  in  her  ear. 
The  minister  dead — the  witness  absent — the  register 
lost !  But  the  copy  of  that  register  !  the  copy  !  Might 
not  that  suffice  !  She  groaned,  and  closed  her  eyes  as 
if  to  shut  out  the  future  :  then  starting  up,  she  hurried 
from  the  room,  and  went  straight  to  Beaufort's  study. 
As  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door,  she  trem- 
bled and  drew  back.  But  care  for  the  living  was  strong- 
er at  that  moment  than  even  anguish  for  the  dead  :  she 
entered  the  apartment ;  she  passed  with  a  firm  step  to 
the  bureau.  It  was  locked  ;  Robert  Beaufort's  seal 
upon  the  lock  :  on  every  cupboard,  every  box,  every 
drawer,  the  same  seal,  that  spoke  of  rights  more  valued 
than  her  own.  But  Catharine  was  not  daunted :  she 
turned  and  saw  Philip  by  her  side  ;  she  pointed  to  the 
bureau  in  silence  ;  the  boy  understood  the  appeal.  He 
left  the  room,  and  returned  in  a  few  moments  with  a 
chisel.  The  lock  was  broken  :  tremblingly  and  eagerly 
Catharine  ransacked  the  contents ;  opened  paper  after 
paper,  letter  after  letter,  in  vain  :  no  certificate — no  will 
— no  memorial.  Could  the  brother  have  abstracted  the 
fatal  proof!  A  word  sufficed  to  explain  to  Philip  what 
she  sought  for,  and  his  search  was  more  minute  than 
hers.  Every  possible  receptacle  for  papers  in  that 
room,  in  the  whole  house,  was  explored,  and  still  the 
search  was  fruitless. 

Three  hours  afterward  they  were  in  the  same  room  in 
which  Philip  had  brought  Robert  Beaufort's  letter  to  his 
mother.  Catharine  was  seated,  tearless,  but  deadly 
pale  with  heart-sickness  and  dismay. 

"  Mother,"  said  Philip,  "  may  I  now  read  the  letter  1" 

"  Yes,  boy,  and  decide  for  us  all."  She  paused,  and 
examined  his  face  as  he  read.     He  felt  her  eye  was 

Vol.  I — E 


60  NIGHT   AND  MOkNINO. 

upon  him,  and  restrained  his  emotions  as  he  proceeded. 
"When  he  had  done,  he  hfted  his  dark  gaze  upon  Catha- 
rine's watchful  countenance. 

"  Mother,  whether  or  not  we  obtain  our  rights,  you 
will  still  refuse  this  man's  charity.  I  am  young — aboy ; 
but  I  am  strong  and  active.  I  will  work  for  you  day 
and  night.  I  have  it  in  me — I  feel  it ;  anything  rather 
than  eating  his  bread." 

"  Philip  !  Philip !  you  are  indeed  my  son — your  fa- 
ther's son !  And  have  you  no  reproach  for  your  moth- 
er, who  so  weakly,  so  criminally  concealed  your  birth- 
right, till,  alas !  discovery  may  be  too  late  ?  Oh  !  re- 
proach me,  reproach  me  !  it  will  be  kindness.  No !  do 
not  kiss  me !  I  cannot  bear  it.  Boy !  boy !  if,  as  my 
heart  tells  me,  we  fail  in  proof,  do  you  understand  what, 
in  the  world's  eye,  I  am — what  you  are  V 

"  I  do  !"  said  Philip,  firmly  ;  and  he  fell  on  his  knees 
at  her  feet.  "  Whatever  others  call  you,  you  are  a 
mother,  and  I  your  son.  You  are,  in  the  judgment  of 
Heaven,  my  father's  wife,  and  I  his  heir." 

Catharine  bowed  her  head,  and,  with  a  gush  of  tears, 
fell  into  his  arms.  Sidney  crept  up  to  her,  and  forced 
his  lips  to  her  cold  cheek.  "  Mamma  !  what  vexes  you  ? 
Mamma,  mamma !" 

"Oh,  Sidney!  Sidney!  How  like  his  father!  Look 
at  him,  Philip !  Shall  we  do  right  to  refuse  even  this 
pittance  ?     Must  he  be  a  beggar  too  1" 

"Never  a  beggar!"  said  Philip,  with  a  pride  that 
showed  what  hard  lessons  he  had  yet  to  learn.  "  The 
lawful  sons  of  a  Beaufort  were  not  bom  to  beg  their 
bread!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  The  storm  above,  and  frozen  world  below. 

The  olive  bough 
Faded  and  cast  upon  the  common  wind, 
And  earth  a  doveless  ark." — Laman  Blanchard. 

Mr.  Rohkrt  Beaufort  was  generally  considered  bv 
the  world  a  very  wortiiy  man.  He  had  never  commit- 
ted any  excess — never  gambled  or  incurred  debt — or 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  61 

)feillen  into  the  warm  errors  most  common  with  his  sex. 
He  was  a  good  husband — a  careful  father — an  agreeable 
neighbour — rather  charitable  than  otherwise  to  the  poor. 
He  was  honest  and  methodical  in  his  dealings,  and  had 
been  known  to  behave  handsomely  in  different  relations 
of  Ufe.  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  indeed,  always  meant  to 
do  what  was  right — m  the  eyes  of  the  world !  He  had  no 
other  rule  of  action  but  that  which  the  world  supphed : 
his  religion  was  decorum — his  sense  of  honour  was  re- 
gard to  opinion.  His  heart  was  a  dial  to  which  the 
world  was  the  sun :  when  the  great  eye  of  the  public 
fell  on  it,  it  answered  every  purpose  that  a  heart  could 
answer  ;  but,  when  that  eye  whs  invisible,  the  dial  was 
mute — a  piece  of  brass,  and  nothing  more. 

It  is  just  to  Robert  Beaufort  to  assure  the  reader  that 
he  wholly  disbelieved  his  brother's  story  of  a  private 
marriage.  He  considered  that  tale,  when  heard  for  the 
first  time,  as  a  mere  invention  (and  a  shallow  one)  of  a 
man  wishing  to  make  the  imprudent  step  he  was  about 
to  take  as  respectable  as  he  could.  The  careless  tone 
of  his  brother  when  speaking  upon  the  subject — his  con- 
fession that  of  such  a  marriage  there  was  no  distinct 
proofs,  except  a  copy  of  a  register  (which  copy  Robert 
had  not  found) — made  his  incredulity  natural.  He 
therefore  deemed  himself  under  no  obligation  of  delicacy 
or  respect  to  a  woman  through  whose  means  he  had  vei-y 
nearly  lost  a  noble  succession — a  woman  who  had  not 
even  borne  his  brother's  name — a  woman  whom  nobody 
knew.  Had  Mrs.  Morton  been  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  the 
natural  sons  legitimate  children,  Robert  Beaufort,  sup- 
posing their  situation  of  relative  power  and  dependance 
to  have  been  the  same,  would  have  behaved  with  care- 
ful and  scrupulous  generosity.  The  world  would  have 
said,  "  Nothing  could  be  handsomer  than  Mr.  Robert 
Beaufort's  conduct  l"  Nay,  if  Mrs.  Morton  had  been 
some  divorced  wife  of  birth  and  connexions,  he  would 
have  made  very  different  dispositions  in  her  favour :  he 
would  not  have  allowed  the  connexions  to  have  called 
him  shabby.  But  here  he  felt  that,  all  circumstances  con- 
sidered, the  world,  if  it  spoke  at  all  (which  it  would 
scarcely  think  it  worth  while  to  do),  would  be  on  his 
side.  An  artful  woman — low-born,  and,  of  course,  low- 
bred— who  wanted  to  inveigle  the  rich  and  careless  par- 
amoul*  into  marriage  :  what  could  be  expected  from  the 
man  she  had  sought  to  injure—the  rightful  heir  ?  _  Waa 


53  NIGHT   AND   MORNING 

it  not  very  good  in  him  to  do  anything  for  her ;  and,  if 
he  provided  for  the  children  suitably  to  the  original  sta- 
tion of  the  mother,  did  he  not  go  to  the  very  utmost  of 
reasonable  expectation!  He  certainly  thought  in  his 
conscience,  such  as  it  w^as,  that  he  had  acted  well ;  not 
extravagantly,  not  foohshly,  but  loell.  He  was  sure  the 
world  would  say  so  if  it  knew  all :  he  was  not  bound  to 
do  anything.  He  was  not,  therefore,  prepared  for  Cath- 
arine's short,  haughty,  but  temperate  reply  to  his  letter : 
a  reply  which  conveyed  a  decided  refusal  of  his  offers — 
asserted  positively  her  own  marriage,  and  the  claims  of 
her  children — intimated  legal  proceedings — and  was 
signed  in  the  name  of  Catharine  Beaufort !  Mr.  Beau- 
fort put  the  letter  in  his  bureau,  labelled  "  Impertinent 
answer  from  Mrs.  Morton,  Sept.  14,"  and  was  quite  con- 
tented to  forget  the  existence  of  the  writer,  until  his  law- 
yer, Mr.  Blackwell,  informed  him  that  a  suit  had  been 
instituted  by  Catharine.  Mr.  Robert  turned  pale,  but 
Blackwell  composed  him. 

"  Pooh,  sir !  you  have  nothing  to  fear.  It  is  but  an 
attempt  to  extort  money :  the  attorney  is  a  low  practi- 
tioner, accustomed  to  get  up  bad  cases  :  they  can  make 
nothing  of  it." 

This  was  true  :  whatever  the  rights  of  the  case,  poor 
Catharine  had  no  proofs — no  evidence — which  could  jus- 
tify a  respectable  lawyer  to  advise  her  proceeding  to  a 
suit.  She  named  two  witnesses  of  her  marriage  :  one 
dead,  the  other  could  not  be  heard  of.  She  selected  for 
the  alleged  place  in  which  the  ceremony  was  performed 
a  very  remote  village,  in  which  it  appeared  that  the  re- 
gister had  been  destroyed.  No  attested  copy  thereof 
was  to  be  found  ;  and  Catharine  was  stunned  on  hearing 
that,  even  if  found,  it  was  doubtful  whether  it  could  be 
received  as  evidence,  unless  to  corroborate  actual  per- 
sonal testimony.  It  so  happened  that  when  Philip,  many 
years  ago,  had  received  the  copy,  he  had  not  shown  it  to 
Catharine,  nor  mentioned  Mr.  Jones's  name  as  the  copy- 
ist. In  fact,  then  only  three  years  married  to  Catharine, 
his  worldly  caution  had  not  yet  been  conquered  by  con- 
fident experience  of  her  generosity.  As  for  the  mere 
moral  evidence  dependant  on  the  publication  of  her  bans 
in  London,  that  amounted  to  no  proof  whatever ;  nor,  on 
inquiry  at  A ,  did  the  Welsh  villagers  remember  any- 
thing farther  than  that,  some  fifteen  years  ago,  a  hand- 
some gentleman  had  visited  Mr.  Price,  and  one  or  two 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  53 

rather  thought  that  Mr.  Price  had  married  him  to  a  lady 
from  London ;  evidence  quite  inadmissible  against  the 
deadly,  damning  fact,  that  for  fifteen  years  Catharine 
had  openly  borne  another  name,  and  lived  with  Mr.  Beau- 
fort ostensibly  as  his  mistress.  Her  generosity  in  this 
destroyed  her  case.  Nevertheless,  she  found  a  low 
practitioner,  who  took  her  money  and  neglected  her 
cause ;  so  her  suit  was  heard  and  dismissed  with  con- 
tempt. Henceforth,  then,  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law 
and  the  public,  Catharine  was  an  impudent  adventurer, 
and  her  sons  were  nameless  outcasts. 

And  now,  relieved  from  all  fear,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
entered  upon  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  splendid  fortune. 
The  house  in  Berkeley  Square  was  furnished  anew. 
Great  dinners  and  gay  routs  were  given  in  the  ensuing 
spring.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  became  persons  of  con- 
siderable importance.  The  rich  man  had,  even  when 
poor,  been  ambitious  ;  his  ambition  now  centred  in  his 
only  son.  Arthur  had  always  been  considered  a  boy  of 
talents  and  promise  :  to  what  might  he  not  now  aspire  ] 
The  term  of  his  probation  with  the  tutor  was  abridged, 
and  Arthur  Beaufort  was  sent  at  once  to  Oxford. 

Before  he  went  to  the  University,  during  a  short  pre- 
paratory visit  to  his  father,  Arthur  spoke  to  him  of  the 
Mortons. 

"  What  has  become  ot  them,  sir  ?  and  what  have  you 
done  for  themT' 

"  Done  for  them  !"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  opening  his 
eyes.  "  What  should  I  do  for  persons  who  have  just 
been  harassing  me  with  the  most  unprincipled  litigation  I 
My  conduct  to  them  has  been  too  generous — that  is,  all 
things  considered.  But  when  you  are  my  age  you  will 
find  there  is  very  little  gratitude  in  the  world,  Arthur." 

"  Still,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  with  the  goodness  that  be- 
ibnged  to  him,  "  still,  my  uncle  was  greatly  attached  to 
them  ;  and  the  boys,  at  least,  are  guiltless." 

"  Well,  well !"  replied  Mr.  Beaufort,  a  little  impatient- 
ly, "  I  believe  they  want  for  nothing  ;  I  fancy  they  are 
with  the  mother's  relations.  Whenever  they  address 
me  in  a  proper  manner,  they  shall  not  find  me  revenge- 
ful or  hard-hearted ;  but,  since  we  are  on  this  topic," 
continued  the  father,  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  a 
care  that  showed  his  decorum  even  in  trifles,  "  I  hope 
you  see  the  results  of  that  kind  of  connexion,  and  that 
you  will  lake  warning  by  your  poor  uncle's  example. 
£2 


54  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

And  now  let  us  change  the  subject :  it  is  not  a  very 
pleasant  one,  and,  at  your  age,  the  less  your  thoughts 
turn  on  such  matters  the  better." 

Arthur  Beaufort,  with  the  careless  generosity  of  youths 
that  gauges  other  men's  conduct  by  its  own  sentiments, 
believed  that  his  father,  who  had  never  been  niggardly 
to  himself,  had  really  acted  as  his  words  implied ;  and, 
engrossed  by  the  pursuits  of  the  new  and  brilliant  ca- 
reer opened,  whether  to  his  pleasures  or  his  studies,  suf- 
fered the  objects  of  his  inquiries  to  pass  from  his 
thoughts. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Morton,  for  by  that  name  we  must 
still  call  her,  and  her  children  were  settled  in  a  small 
lodging  in  an  humble  suburb,  situated  on  the  high  road 
between  Fernside  and  the  metropolis.  She  saved  from 
her  hopeless  lawsuit,  after  the  sale  of  her  jewels  and 
ornaments,  a  sufficient  sum  to  enable  her,  with  economy, 
to  live  respectably  for  a  year  or  two  at  least,  during 
which  time  she  might  arrange  her  plans  for  the  future. 
She  reckoned,  as  a  sure  resource,  upon  the  assistance 
of  her  relations ;  but  it  was  one  to  which  she  applied 
with  natural  shame  and  reluctance.  She  had  kept  up  a 
correspondence  with  her  father  during  his  life.  To  him 
she  never  revealed  the  secret  of  her  marriage,  though 
she  did  not  write  like  a  person  conscious  of  error.  Per- 
haps, as  she  always  said  to  her  son,  she  had  made  to 
her  husband  a  solemn  promise  never  to  divulge  or  even 
hint  that  secret  until  he  himself  should  authorize  its 
disclosure.  For  neither  he  nor  Catharine  ever  contem- 
plated separation  or  death.  Alas  !  how  all  of  us,  when 
happy,  sleep  secure  in  the  dark  shadows  which  ouglit  to 
warn  us  of  the  sorrows  that  are  to  come  !  Still  Catha- 
rine's father,  a  man  of  coarse  mind  and  not  rigid  princi- 
ples, did  not  take  much  to  heart  that  connexion  which 
he  assumed  to  be  iUicit.  Slie  was  provided  for,  that 
■was  some  comfort :  doubtless  Mr.  Beaufort  would  act 
like  a  gentleman — perliaps,  at  last,  make  her  an  honest 
woman  and  a  lady.  Meanwliile,  she  had  a  fine  house, 
and  a  fine  carriage,  and  fine  servants ;  and,  so  far  from 
applying  to  him  for  money,  was  constantly  sending  lum 
little  presents.  But  Calliarinc  only  saw,  in  his  permis- 
sion of  her  correspondence,  kind,  forgiving,  and  trustful 
affection,  and  she  loved  liim  tenderly :  when  lie  died,  the 
link  that  bound  lier  to  her  family  was  broken.  Her 
brother  succeeded  to  the  trade :  a  man  of  probity  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  55 

honour,  but  somewhat  hard  and  unamiable.  In  the  only 
letter  she  had  received  from  him — the  one  announcing 
her  father's  death — he  told  her  plainly  and  very  proper- 
ly that  he  could  not  countenance  the  life  she  led — that  he 
had  children  growing  up — that  all  intercourse  between 
them  was  at  an  end,  unless  she  left  Mr.  Beaufort ;  when, 
if  she  sincerely  repented,  he  would  still  prove  her  af- 
fectionate brother. 

Though  Catharine  had  at  the  time  resented  this  letter 
as  unfeeling,  now,  humbled  and  sorrow-stricken,  she 
recognised  the  propriety  of  principle  from  which  it  em- 
anated. Her  brother  was  well  off  for  his  station  ;  she 
would  explain  to  him  her  real  situation,  and  he  would 
believe  her  story.  She  would  write  to  him,  and  beg  him, 
at  least,  to  give  aid  to  her  poor  children. 

But  this  step  she  did  not  take  till  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  her  pittance  was  consumed — till  nearly  three 
parts  of  a  year  since  Beaufort's  death  had  expired — and 
till  sundry  warnings,  not  to  be  lightly  heeded,  had  made 
her  forebode  the  probability  of  an  early  death  for  her- 
self. From  the  age  of  sixteen,  when  she  had  been  pla- 
ced by  Mr.  Beaufort  at  the  head  of  his  household,  she 
had  been  cradled,  not  in  extravagance,  but  in  an  easy 
luxury,  which  had  not  brought  with  it  habits  of  economy 
and  thrift.  She  could  grudge  anything  to  herself,  but  to 
her  children — his  children,  whose  every  whim  had  been 
anticipated,  she  had  not  the  heart  to  be  saving.  She 
could  have  starved  in  a  garret  had  she  been  alone,  but 
she  could  not  see  them  wanting  a  comfort  while  she 
possessed  a  guinea.  Philip,  to  do  him  justice,  evinced  a 
consideration  not  to  have  been  expected  from  his  early 
and  arrogant  recklessness.  But  Sidney — who  could  ex- 
pect consideration  from  such  a  child  ]  What  could  he 
know  of  the  change  of  circumstances — of  the  value  of 
money  \  Did  he  seem  dejected,  Catharine  would  steal 
out  and  spend  a  week's  income  on  the  lapful  of  toys 
which  she  brought  home.  Did  he  seem  a  shade  more 
pale — did  he  complain  of  the  slightest  ailment,  a  doctor 
must  be  sent  for.  Alas !  her  own  ailments,  neglected 
and  unheeded,  were  growing  beyond  the  reach  of  medi- 
cine. Anxious — fearful — gnawed  by  regret  for  the  past, 
the  thought  of  famine  in  the  future,  she  daily  fretted  and 
wore  herself  away.  She  had  cultivated  her  mind  du- 
ring her  seckided  residence  with  Mr.  Beaufort,  but  she 
had  learned  none  of  the  arts  by  which  decayed  gentle- 


56  NIGHT    AND    MORNING 

women  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door ;  no  little  holyday 
accomplishments,  which  in  the  day  of  need  turn  to  use- 
ful trade ;  no  water-colour  drawings,  no  paintings  on 
velvet,  no  fabrication  of  pretty  gewgaws,  no  embroi- 
dery and  fine  needlework.  She  was  helpless — utterly 
helpless — not  strong  enough  even  for  a  servant;  and, 
even  in  that  capacity,  could  she  have  got  a  character  ] 
A  great  change  at  this  time  was  apparent  in  Philip.  Had 
he  fallen  then  into  kind  hands  and  guiding  eyes,  his  pas- 
sions and  energies  might  have  ripened  into  rare  qual- 
ities and  great  virtues.  But  perhaps,  as  Goethe  has 
somewhere  said,  "Experience,  after  all,  is  the  best 
teacher^"  He  kept  a  constant  guard  on  his  vehement 
temper— his  wayward  will ;  he  would  not  have  vexed 
his  mother  for  the  world.  But,  strange  to  aay  (it  was  a 
great  mystery  in  the  woman's  heart),  in  proportion  as 
he  became  more  amiable,  it  seemed  that  his  mother 
loved  him  less.  Perhaps  she  did  not,  in  that  change, 
recognise  so  closely  the  darling  of  the  old  time ;  per- 
haps the  very  weaknesses  and  importunities  of  Sidney, 
the  hourly  sacrifices  the  child  entailed  upon  her,  endear- 
ed him  more  to  her  from  that  natural  sense  of  depend- 
ance  and  protection  which  forms  the  great  bond  between 
mother  and  child  ;  perhaps,  too,  as  Philip  had  been  one 
to  inspire  as  much  pride  as  affection,  so  the  pride  faded 
away  with  the  expectations  that  had  fed  it,  and  carried 
off  in  its  decay  some  of  the  affection  that  was  inter- 
twined with  it.  However  this  be,  Philip  had  formerly  ap- 
peared the  more  spoiled  and  favoured  of  the  two,  and  now 
Sidney  seemed  all  in  all.  Thus,  beneath  the  younger 
son's  caressing  gentleness,  there  grew  up  a  certain  re- 
gard for  self ;  it  was  latent — it  took  amiable  colours — 
it  had  even  a  certain  charm  and  grace  in  so  sweet  a 
child,  but  selfishness  it  was  not  the  less  :  in  this  he  dif- 
fered from  his  brother.  Philip  was  self-willed,  Sidney 
self-loving.  A  certain  timidity  of  character,  endearing, 
perhaps,  to  the  anxious  heart  of  a  mother,  made  this 
fault  in  tlie  younger  boy  more  likely  to  take  root ;  for 
in  bold  natures  tliere  is  a  lavish  and  uncalculating  reck- 
lessness, which  scorns  self  unconsciously  :  and  what  is 
fear,  but,  when  physical,  the  regard  for  one's  own  per- 
son ;  when  moral,  the  anxiety  for  one's  own  interests'? 
It  was  in  a  small  room  in  a  lodging-house  in  the  sub- 
urb of  H that  Mrs.  Morton  was  se-ated  by  the  win- 
dow, anxiously  awaiting  the  knock  of  the  postnian,  who 


Night  and  morning.  57 

was  expected  to  bring  her  brother's  reply  to  her  letter. 
It  was,  therefore,  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock — a 
morning  in  the  merry  month  of  June.  It  was  hot  and 
sultry,  which  is  rare  in  an  English  June.  A  flytrap, 
red,  white,  and  yellow,  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
swarmed  with  flies ;  flies  were  on  the  ceiling,  flies  buz- 
zed at  the  windows ;  the  sofa  and  chairs  of  horsehair 
seemed  stuffed  with  flies.  There  was  an  air  of  heated 
discomfort  in  the  gaudy  paper,  in  the  bright-staring  car- 
pet, in  the  very  looking-glass  over  the  chimneypiece, 
where  a  strip  of  mirror  lay  in  an  embrace  of  frame 
covered  with  yellow  muslin.  We  may  talk  of  the 
dreariness  of  winter — and  winter,  no  doubt,  is  desolate 
— but  what  in  the  world  is  more  dreary  to  eyes  inured 
to  the  verdure  and  bloom  of  Nature — "  the  pomp  of 
groves  and  garniture  of  fields" — than  a  close  room  in  a 
suburban  lodging-house  ;  the  sun  piercing  every  corner ; 
nothing  fresh,  nothing  cool,  nothing  fragrant  to  be  seen, 
felt,  or  inhaled;  all  dust,  glare,  noise,  with  a  chandler's 
shop,  perhaps,  next  door  {  Sidney,  armed  with  a  pair  of 
scissors,  was  cutting  the  pictures  out  of  a  story-book 
which  his  mother  had  bought  him  the  day  before.  Phil- 
ip, who,  of  late,  had  taken  much  to  rambling  about  the 
streets — it  may  be,  in  hopes  of  meeting  one  of  those 
benevolent,  eccentric  elderly  gentlemen  he  had  read  of 
in  old  novels,  who  suddenly  come  to  the  relief  of  dis- 
tressed virtue  ;  or,  more  probably,  from  the  restlessness 
that  belonged  to  his  adventurous  temperament— Philip 
had  left  the  house  since  breakfast. 

"Oh!  how  hot  this  nasty  room  is  !"  exclaimed  Sidney, 
abruptly  looking  up  from  his  employment.  "  Sha'n't 
we  ever  go  into  the  country  again,  mamma  V 

"  Not  at  present,  my  love." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  my  pony :  why  can't  I  have  my 
pony,  mamma  V 

"  Because — because — the  pony  is  sold,  Sidney." 

"  Who  sold  it  ]" 

*'  Your  uncle." 

"  He  is  a  very  naughty  man,  my  uncle  ;  is  not  he  ■? 
But  can't  I  have  another  pony  ■?  It  would  be  so  nice 
this  fine  weather !" 

"  Ah !  my  dear,  I  wish  I  could  afford  it :  but  you 
shall  have  a  ride  this  week !  Yes,"  continued  the  moth- 
er, as  if  reasoning  with  herself  in  excuse  of  the  extrav- 


58  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

agance,  "  he  does  not  look  well :  poor  child !  he  must 
have  exercise." 

"  A  ride !  Oh !  that  is  my  own  kind  mamma !"  ex- 
claimed Sidney,  clapping  his  hands.  "  Not  on  a  donkey, 
you  know ! — a  pony.  The  man  down  the  street,  there, 
lets  ponies.  I  must  have  the  white  pony  with  the  long 
tail.  But,  I  say,  mamma,  don't  teU  Phihp — pray  don't 
•—he  would  be  jealous." 

"  No,  not  jealous,  my  dear  :  why  do  you  think  so  V 

"  Because  he  is  always  angry  when  I  ask  you  for 
anything.  It  is  very  unkind  in  him,  for  I  don't  care  if  he 
has  a  pony  too — only  not  the  white  one." 

Here  the  postman's  knock,  loud  and  sudden,  startled 
Mrs.  Morton  from  her  seat.  She  pressed  her  hands 
lightly  to  her  heart  as  if  to  still  its  beating,  and  went 
nervously  to  the  door,  thence  to  the  stairs,  to  anticipate 
the  lumbering  step  of  the  slipshod  maid-servant. 

"  Give  it  me,  Jane  !  give  it  me  !" 

"  One  shilling  and  eightpence — charged  double — if  you 
please,  ma'am !     Thank  you." 

"  Mamma,  may  I  tell  Jane  to  engage  the  pony  ?" 

"  Not  now,  my  love  :  sit  down — be  quiet :  I — I  am 
not  weU." 

Sidney,  who  was  affectionate  and  obedient,  crept  back 
peaceably  to  the  window,  and,  after  a  short,  impatient 
sigh,  resumed  the  scissors  and  the  story-book.  I  do  not 
apologize  to  the  reader  for  the  various  letters  I  am 
obliged  to  lay  before  him,  for  character  often  betrays 
itself  more  in  letters  than  in  speech.  Mr.  Roger  Mor- 
ton's reply  was  couched  in  these  terms  : 

"  Dear  Catharine, — I  have  received  your  letter  of  the 
14th  inst.,  and  write  per  return.  I  am  very  much  griev- 
ed to  hear  of  your  afflictions  ;  but,  whatever  you  say, 
1  cannot  think  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort  acted  like  a  consci- 
entious man  in  forgetting  to  make  his  will,  and  leaving 
his  little  ones  destitute.  It  is  all  very  well' to  talk  of  his 
intentions  ;  but  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating. 
And  it  is  hard  upon  me,  who  have  a  large  family  of  my 
own,  and  get  my  living  by  honest  industry,  to  have  a 
rich  gentleman's  children  to  maintain.  As  for  your  story 
about  the  private  marriage,  it  may  or  may  not  be.  Per- 
haps you  were  taken  in  by  that  worthless  man,  for  a  real 
marriage  it  could  not  be.  And  as  you  say  the  law  has 
decided  that  point,  therefore  the  less  you  say  on  the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  69 

matter  the  better.  It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
People  are  not  bound  to  believe  what  can't  be  proved. 
And  even  if  what  you  say  is  true,  you  are  more  to  be 
blamed  than  pitied  for  holding  your  tongue  so  many 
years,  and  discrediting  an  honest  family,  as  ours  has 
always  been  considered.  I  am  sure  my  wife  would  not 
have  thought  of  such  a  thing  for  the  finest  gentleman 
that  ever  wore  shoe-leather.  However,  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings ;  and  I  am  sure  I  am  ready  to  do 
whatever  is  right  and  proper.  You  cannot  expect  that 
I  should  ask  you  to  my  house.  My  wife,  you  know,  is 
a  very  religious  woman — what  is  called  evangelical ;  but 
that's  neither  here  nor  there  :  I  deal  with  all  people, 
churchmen  and  dissenters — even  Jews — and  don't  trou- 
ble my  head  much  about  differences  in  opinion.  1  dare 
say  there  are  many  ways  to  Heaven,  as  1  said  the  other 
day  to  Mr.  Thwaites,  our  member.  But  it  is  right  to 
say  my  wife  will  not  hear  of  your  coming  here ;  and, 
indeed,  it  might  do  harm  to  my  business ;  for  there  are 
several  elderly  single  gentlewomen  who  buy  flannel  for 
the  poor  at  my  shop,  and  they  are  very  particular — as 
they  ought  to  be,  indeed ;  for  morals  are  very  strict  in 
this  county,  and  particularly  in  this  town,  where  we 
certainly  do  pay  very  high  church-rates.  Not  that  I 
grumble ;  for,  though  I  am  as  liberal  as  any  man,  I  am 
for  an  Established  Church — as  I  ought  to  be,  since  the 
dean  is  my  best  customer.  With  regard  to  yourself,  I 
will  enclose  you  jGlO,  and  you  will  let  me  know  when 
it  is  gone,  and  I  will  see  what  more  I  can  do.  You  say 
you  are  very  poorly,  which  I  am  sorry  to  hear ;  but  you 
must  pluck  up  your  spirits,  and  take  in  plain  work  ;  and 
I  really  think  you  ought  to  apply  to  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort. He  bears  a  high  character ;  and,  notwithstanding 
your  lawsuit,  which  I  cannot  approve  of,  I  dare  say  he 
might  allow  you  jG40  or  £bO  a  year,  if  you  apply  prop- 
erly, which  would  be  the  right  thing  in  him.  So  much 
for  you.  As  for  the  boys — poor,  fatherless  creatures ! — 
it  is  very  hard  that  they  should  be  so  punished  for  no 
fault  of  their  own ;  and  my  wife,  who,  though  strict,  is 
a  good-hearted  woman,  is  ready  and  willing  to  do  what 
I  wish  about  them.  You  say  the  eldest  is  near  sixteen, 
and  well  come  on  in  his  studies.  I  can  get  him  a  very 
good  thing  in  a  light,  genteel  way.  My  wife's  brother, 
Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith,  is  a  bookseller  and  station^ 


60  NIGHT   AND   MORNING.' 

er,  with  pretty  practice,  in  R .    He  is  a  clever  man, 

and  has  a  newspaper,  which  he  kindly  sends  me  every 
week  ;  and,  though  it  is  not  my  county,  it  has  some  very 
sensible  views,  and  is  often  noticed  in  the  London  pa- 
pers as  '  our  provincial  contemporary.'  Mr.  Plaskwith 
owes  me  some  money,  which  1  advanced  him  when  he 
set  up  the  paper,  and  he  has  several  times  most  honest- 
ly offered  to  pay  me  in  shares  in  the  said  paper.  But, 
as  the  thing  might  break,  and  I  don't  like  concerns  I 
don't  understand,  I  have  not  taken  advantage  of  his  very 
handsome  proposals.  Now  Plaskwith  wrote  me  word 
two  days  ago  that  he  wanted  a  genteel,  smart  lad  as  as- 
sistant and  'prentice,  and  offered  to  take  my  eldest  boy ; 
but  we  can't  spare  him.  I  write  to  Christopher  by  this 
post ;  and  if  your  youth  will  run  down  on  the  top  of  the 
coach,  and  inquire  for  Mr.  Plaskwith — the  fare  is  trifling 
— I  have  no  doubt  he  will  be  engaged  at  once.  But  you 
will  say,  'There's  the  premium  to  consider!'  No  such 
thing ;  Kit  will  set  off  the  premium  against  his  debt  to 
me,  so  you  will  have  nothing  to  pay.  'Tis  a  very  pretty 
business,  and  the  lad's  education  will  get  him  on ;  so 
that's  off  your  mind.  As  to  the  httle  chap,  I'll  take  him 
at  once.  You  say  he  is  a  pretty  boy,  and  a  pretty  boy 
is  always  a  help  in  a  linen-draper's  shop.  He  shall 
share  and  share  with  my  own  young  folks,  and  Mrs. 
Morton  will  take  care  of  his  wasliing  and  morals.  I 
conclude  (this  is  Mrs.  M.'s  suggestion)  that  he  has  had 
the  measles,  cowpock,  and  whooping-cough,  which 
please  let  me  know.  If  he  behave  well,  which,  at  his 
age,  we  can  easily  break  him  into,  he  is  settled  for  life. 
So  now  you  have  got  rid  of  two  mouths  to  feed,  and 
have  nobody  to  think  of  but  yourself,  which  must  be  a 
great  comfort.  Don't  forget  to  write  to  Mr.  Beaufort ; 
and  if  he  don't  do  something  for  you,  he's  not  the  gen- 
tleman I  take  him  for :  but  you  are  my  own  flesh  and 
blood,  and  sha'n't  starve ;  for,  though  I  don't  think  it 
right  in  a  man  in  business  to  encourage  what's  wrong, 
yet,  when  a  person's  down  in  the  world,  I  think  an 
ounce  of  help  is  better  than  a  pound  of  preaching.  My 
wife  thinks  otherwise,  and  wants  to  send  you  some 
tracts ;  but  everybody  can't  be  as  correct  as  some  folks. 
However,  as  I  said  before,  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
Let  me  know  wlien  your  boy  comes  down,  and  also 
about  the  measles,  cowjwck,  and  whooping-cough;  also 


NIGHT   AND   MORN:iNO.  61 

if  all's  right  with  Mr.  Plaskwith.     So  now  I  hope  you 
will  feel  more  comfortable  ;  and  remain, 
"  Dear  Catharine, 

"  Your  forgiving  and  affectionate  brother, 
"  Roger  Morton. 

"  High-street,  N ,  June  13. 

>     "  P.S. — Mrs.  M.  says  that  she  will  be  a  mother  to 
'  your  little  boy,  and  that  you  had  better  mend  up  all  his 
linen  before  you  send  him." 

As  Catharine  finished  this  epistle,  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes  and  beheld  Philip.  He  had  entered  noiselessly, 
and  he  remained  silent,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and 
watching  the  face  of  his  mother,  which  crimsoned  with 
painful  humiliation  while  she  read.  Philip  was  not  now 
the  trim  and  dainty  stripling  first  introduced  to  the  read- 
er. He  had  outgrown  his  faded  suit  of  funereal  mourn- 
ing ;  his  long,  neglected  hair  hung  elf-like  and  matted 
down  his  cheeks  ;  there  was  a  gloomy  look  in  his  bright 
dark  eyes.  Poverty  never  betrays  itself  more  than  in 
the  features  and  form  of  Pride.  It  was  evident  that  his 
spirit  endured  rather  than  accommodated  itself  to  his 
fallen  state  ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  soiled  and  thread- 
bare garments,  and  a  haggardness  that  ill  becomes  the 
j'ears  of  palmy  youth,  there  was  about  his  whole  mien 
and  person  a  wild  and  savage  grandeur,  more  impressive 
than  his  former  ruffling  arrogance  of  manner. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  he,  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
sternness  in  his  countenance  and  pity  in  his  voice, 
"  well,  mother,  and  what  says  your  brother  ?" 

"  You  decided  for  us  once  before,  decide  again.  But 
I  need  not  ask  you  ;  you  would  never — " 

"  I  don't  know,"  interrupted  Philip,  vaguely ;  "  let  me 
see  what  we  are  to  decide  on." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  naturally  a  woman  of  high  courage 
and  spirit,  but  sickness  and  grief  had  worn  down  both  ; 
and,  though  PhiUp  was  but  sixteen,  there  is  something 
in  the  very  nature  of  woman,  especially  in  trouble, 
which  makes  her  seek  to  lean  on  some  other  will  than 
her  own.  She  gave  Phihp  the  letter,  and  went  quietly 
to  sit  down  by  Sidney. 

"  Your  brother  means  well,"  said  Philip,  when  he  had 
concluded  the  epistle. 

"  Yes,  but  nothing  is  to  be  done :  I  cannot,  cannot 
send  poor  Sidney  to — to — "  and  Mrs.  Morton  sobbed. 

Vol.  I.— F 


62  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  No,  my  dear,  dear  mother,  no ;  it  would  be  terrible, 
indeed,  to  part  you  and  him.  But  this  bookseller—^ 
Plaskwith — perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  support  you  both." 

"  Why  you  do  not  think,  Philip,  of  being  an  appren- 
tice !  you,  who  have  been  so  brought  up !  you,  who  are 
so  proud !" 

"  Mother,  I  would  sweep  the  crossings  for  your  sake  ! 
Mother,  for  your  sake  I  would  go  to  my  uncle  Beaufort 
with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  for  halfpence.  Mother,  I  am 
not  proud ;  I  would  be  honest  if  I  can ;  but  when  I  see 
you  pining  away,  and  so  changed,  the  devil  comes  into 
me,  and  I  often  shudder  lest  I  should  commit  some 
crime^T-what,  I  don't  know  !" 

"  Come  here,  Philip — my  own  Philip-r-my  son— my 
hope — my  firstborn !"  and  the  mother's  heart  gushed 
forth  in  all  the  fondness  of  early  days.  ■'  Don't  speak 
so  terribly  ;  you  frighten  me  !"  • 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him 
soothingly.  He  laid  his  burning  temples  on  her  bosom, 
and  nestled  himself  to  her,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do 
after  some  stormy  paroxysm  of  his  passionate  and  way- 
ward infancy.  So  there  they  remained,  their  lips  silent, 
their  hearts  speaking  to  each  other — each  from  each  ta- 
king strange  succour  and  holy  strength — till  Philip  rose, 
calm,  and  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  Good-by,  mother;  I  will 
go  at  once  to  Mr.  Plaskwith." 

"  But  you  have  no  money  for  the  coach-fare :  here, 
Philip;"  and  she  placed  her  purse  in  his  hand,  from 
Avhich  he  reluctantly  selected  a  few  shillings.  "  And, 
mind,  if  the  man  is  rude,  and  you  dislike  him — mind, 
you  must  not  subject  yourself  to  insolence  and  morti- 
fication." 

"  Oh,  all  will  go  well,  don't  fear,"  said  Philip,  cheer- 
fully ;  and  he  left  the  house. 

Towards  evening  he  had  reached  his  destination.  The 
shop  was  of  goodly  exterior,  with  a  private  entrance ; 
over  the  shop  was  written,  "  Christopher  Plaskwith, 
Bookseller  and  Stationer ;"  on  the  private  door  a  brass 

plate,  inscribed  with  "  R and  * Mercury  Office, 

Mr.  Plaskwitli."  Philip  applied  at  the  private  entrance, 
and  was  shown  by  a  "  neat-handed  Phillis"  into  a  small 
office-room.  In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened,  and  the 
bookseller  entered. 

Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith  was  a  short,  stout  man,  in 
drah-colo  jred  breeches,  and  gaiters  to  match — a  black 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  63 

coat  and  waistcoat — a  large  watch-chain,  with  a  prodi- 
gious bunch  of  seals,  alternated  by  small  keys  and  old- 
fashioned  mourning-rings.  His  complexion  was  pale 
and  sodden,  and  his  hair  short,  dark,  and  sleek.  The 
bookseller  valued  himself  on  a  likeness  to  Bonaparte, 
and  affected  a  short,  brusque,  peremptory  manner,  which 
he  meant  to  be  the  indication  of  the  vigorous  and  de- 
cisive character  of  his  prototype. 

"  So  you  are  the  young  gentleman  Mr.  Roger  Morton 
recommends  !"  Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  took  out  a  huge 
pocket-book,  slowly  unclasped  it,  staring  hard  at  Philip, 
with  what  he  designed  for  a  piercing  and  penetrative 
survey. 

"  This  is  the  letter — no !  this  is  Sir  Thomas  Champer- 
down's  order  for  fifty  copies  of  the  last  Mercury,  con- 
taining his  speech  at  the  county  meeting.  Your  age, 
young  man  ^  Only  sixteen  ! — look  oldei- — that's  not  it 
— that's  not  it — and  this  is  it !  Sit  down.  Yes,  Mr.  Ro- 
ger Morton  recommends  you — a  relation — unfortunate 
circumstances — well-educated — my  benevolence — hum ! 
Well,  young  man,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself!" 

"  Sir  T" 

"  Can  you  cast  accounts — know  bookkeeping  V 

"  I  know  something  of  algebra,  sir." 

"  Algebra !     Oh,  what  else  V 

"  French  and  Latin." 

"  Hum  !  may  be  useful.  Why  do  you  wear  your 
hair  so  long!     Look  at  mine.     What's  your  name!" 

"  Phihp  Morton." 

"  Mr.  Phihp  Morton,  you  have  an  intelligent  counte- 
nance— I  go  a  great  deal  by  countenances.  You  know 
the  terms  ? — most  favourable  to  you.  No  premium — I 
settle  that  with  Roger.  I  give  board  and  bed — find 
your  own  washing.  Habits  regular — 'prenticeship  only 
five  years  ;  when  over,  must  not  set  up  in  the  same 
town.  I  will  see  to  the  indentures.  When  can  yovl 
come  V 

"  When  you  please,  sir." 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,  by  six  o'clock  coach." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Philip,  "  will  there  be  no  salary  ? 
Something,  ever  so  small,  that  I  could  send  to  my 
mother  ]" 

"  Salary  at  sixteen  !  Board  and  bed— no  premium  ! 
Salary !  what  for  \  'Prentices  have  no  salary  I  You 
will  have  every  comfort." 


64  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Give  me  less  comfort,  that  I  may  give  my  mother 
more ;  a  Uttle  money,  ever  so  little,  and  take  it  out  of 
my  board  :  I  can  do  vi^ith  one  meal  a  day,  sir." 

The  bookseller  was  moved  ;  he  took  a  huge  pinchful 
of  snuff  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  mused  a  mo- 
ment.    He  then  said  as  he  re-examined  Philip, 

"  Well,  young  man,  I'll  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  You 
shall  come  here  first  upon  trial — see  if  we  like  each 
other  before  we  sign  the  indentures — allow  you,  mean- 
while, 55.  a  week.  If  you  show  talent,  will  see  if  I  and 
Roger  can  settle  about  some  little  allowance.  That  do, 
ehr' 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  yes,"  said  Philip,  gratefully. 

"  Settled,  then.     Follow  me — present  you  to  Mrs.  P." 

Thus  saying,  Mr.  Plaskwith  returned  the  letter  to  the 
pocket-book,  and  the  pocket-book  to  the  pocket ;  and, 
putting  his  arms  behind  his  coat-tails,  threw  up  his  chin, 
and  strode  through  the  passage  into  a  small  parlour, 
that  looked  upon  a  small  garden.  Here,  seated  round 
the  table,  were  a  thin  lady,  with  a  squint,  Mrs.  Plask- 
with ;  two  little  girls,  the  Misses  Plaskwith,  also  with 
squints  and  pinafores  ;  a  young  man  of  three  or  four- 
and-twenty,  in  nankeen  trousers,  a  little  the  worse  for 
washing,  and  a  black  velveteen  jacket  and  waistcoat. 
This  young  gentleman  was  very  much  freckled ;  wore 
his  hair,  which  was  dark  and  wiry,  up  at  one  side,  down 
at  the  other ;  had  a  short,  thick  nose,  full  lips,  and, 
when  close  to  him,  smelt  of  cigars.  Such  was  Mr.  Plim- 
mins,  Mr.  Plaskwith's  factotum,  foreman  in  the  shop, 
assistant-editor  to  the  Mercury.  Mr.  Plaskwith  formally 
went  the  round  of  the  introduction  :  Mrs.  P.  nodded  her 
head ;  the  Misses  P.  nudged  each  other  and  grinned  ; 
Mr.  Phmmins  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  glanced 
at  the  glass,  and  bowed  very  politely. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  P.,  my  second  cup,  and  give  Mr.  Morton 
his  dish  of  tea.  Must  be  tired,  sir— hot  day.  Jemima, 
ring — no,  go  to  the  stairs,  and  call  out,  '  More  buttered 
toast.'  That's  the  shorter  way — promptitude  is  my  rule 
in  life,  Mr.  Morton.  Pray — hum,  hum — have  you  ever, 
by  chance,  studied  the  biography  of  the  great  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  V 

Mr.  Plimmins  gulped  down  his  tea,  and  kicked  Philip 
under  the  table.  Phihp  looked  fiercely  at  the  foreman, 
and  replied  sullenly, 

"  No,  sir." 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  65 

"That's  a  pity.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  a  very 
great  man — very  !  You  liave  seen  his  cast  ?  There  it  is, 
on  the  dumb  waiter !     Look  at  it !     See  a  Hkeness,  eh  ]" 

"  Likeness,  sir !     I  never  saw  Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

"  Never  saw  him !  No !  just  look  round  the  room. 
Who  does  that  bust  put  you  in  mind  of]  who  does  it  re- 
semble ?" 

Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  rose  and  put  himself  into  an  at- 
titude ;  his  hand  in  his  waistcoat,  and  his  face  pensively 
inclined  towards  the  tea-table.  "  Now  fancy  me  at  St. 
Helena — this  table  is  the  ocean.  Now,  then,  who  is  that 
cast  hke,  Mr.  Philip  Morton  T' 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  it  is  like  you  !" 

"  Ah,  that  it  is  !  Strikes  every  one  !  Does  it  not, 
Mrs.  P.,  does  it  not  1  And,  when  you  have  known 
me  longer,  you  will  find  a  moral  similitude — a  moral, 
sir  !  Straightforward — short — to  the  point-^bold — de- 
termined !" 

"  Bless  me,  Mr.  P. !"  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  verj'  quer- 
ulously, "  do  make  haste  with  your  tea  :  the  young  gen- 
tleman, I  suppose,  wants  to  go  home,  and  the  coach 
passes  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Have  you  seen  Kean  in  Richard  the  Third,  Mr.  Mor'- 
ton  ■?"  asked  Mr.  Plimmins. 

"  I  have  never  seen  a  play." 

"  Never  seen  a  play  !     How  very  odd  !" 

"  Not  at  all  odd,  Mr.  Plimmins,"  said  the  stationer^ 
"  Mr.  Morton  has  known  troubles — so  hand  him  the  hot 
toast." 

Silent  and  morose,  but  rather  di.sdainful  than  sad, 
Philip  listened  to  the  babble  round  hiui,  and  observed 
the  ungenial  characters  with  which  he  was  to  associate. 
He  cared  not  to  please  {that,  alas !  had  never  been  espe- 
cially his  study) ;  it  was  enough  for  him  if  he  could  see, 
stretching  to  his  mind's  eye  beyond  the  walls  of  that 
dull  room,  the  long  vistas  into  fairer  fortune.  At  six- 
teen, what  sorrow  can  freeze  the  hopcjorwiiat  prophetic 
fear  whisper  "  fool"  to  the  ambition  ]  He  would  bear 
back  into  ease  and  prosperity,  if  not  into  affluence  and 
station,  the  dear  ones  left  at  home.  From  the  eminence 
of  five  shillings  a  week  he  looked  over  the  Promised 
Land. 

At  length,  Mr.  Plaskwith,  pulling  out  his  watch,  said, 
"  Just  in  time  to  catch  the  coach — make  your  bow  and 
be  off— Smart's  the  word  !"     Philip  rose,  took  up  his  hat, 
F  2 


66  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

made  a  stiff  bow  that  included  the  whole  group,  and  van- 
ished with  his  host. 

Mrs.  Plaskwith  breathed  more  easily  when  he  was 
gone. 

"  I  never  seed  a  more  odd,  fierce,  ill-bred  looking 
young  man !  I  declare  I  am  quite  afraid  of  him.  What 
an  eye  he  has  !" 

"  Uncommonly  dark ;  what,  I  may  say,  gipsy-like," 
said  Mr.  Plimmins. 

"  He !  he !  You  always  do  say  such  good  things, 
Plimmins.  Gipsy-like  !  he  !  he  !  So  he  is.  I  wonder 
if  he  can  tell  fortunes  V 

"  He'll  be  long  before  he  has  a  fortune  of  his  own  to 
tell.     Ha  !  ha  !"  said  Plimmins. 

"  He !  he  !  how  very  good !  You  are  so  pleasant,  Plim- 
mins." 

While  these  strictures  on  his  appearance  were  still 
going  on,  Philip  had  already  ascended  the  roof  of  the 
coach ;  and,  waving  his  hand  with  the  condescension  of 
old  times  to  his  future  master,  was  carried  away  by  the 
"  Express"  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust. 

"  A  very  warm  evening,  sir,"  said  a  passenger  seated 
at  his  right,  puffing,  while  he  spoke,  from  a  short  Ger- 
man pipe,  a  volume  of  smoke  into  Philip's  face. 

"  Very  warm.  Be  so  good  as  to  smoke  into  the  face 
of  the  gentleman  on  the  other  side  of  you,"  returned 
Philip,  petulantly. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !"  replied  the  passenger,  with  a  loud,  pow- 
erful laugh — the  laugh  of  a  strong  man.  "  You  don't 
take  to  the  pipe  yet ;  you  will  by-and-by,  when  you 
have  known  the  cares  and  anxieties  that  I  have  gone 
through.  A  pipe!  It  is  a  great  soother!  a  pleasant 
comforter !  Blue  devils  fly  before  its  honest  breath  !  It 
ripens  the  brain — it  opens  the  heart ;  and  the  man  who 
smokes,  thinks  like  a  sage  and  acts  like  a  Samaritan  !" 

Roused  from  his  reveryby  this  quaint  and  unexpected 
declamation,  Philip  turned  his  quick  glance  at  his  neigh- 
bour. He  saw  a  man  of  great  bulk  and  immense  phys- 
ical power — broad-shouldered  —deep-chested — not  cor- 
pulent, but  taking  the  same  girth  from  bone  and  muscle 
that  a  corpulent  man  does  from  flesh.  He  wore  a  blue 
coat — frogged,  braided,  and  buttoned  to  the  throat.  A 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  set  on  one  side,  gave  a  jaunty 
appearance  to  a  countenance  which,  notwithstanding  its 
jovial  cumplcxioa  and  smiling  mouth,  had,  in  repose,  a 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  W 

bold  and  decided  character.  It  was  a  face  well  suited 
to  the  frame,  inasmuch  as  it  betokened  a  mind  capable 
of  wielding  and  mastering  the  brute  physical  force  of 
body.  Light  eyes  of  piercing  intelligence ;  rough,  but 
resolute  and  striking  features,  and  a  jaw  of  iron.  There 
was  thought,  there  was  power,  there  was  passion  in  the 
shaggy  brow,  the  deep-ploughed  lines,  the  dilated  nostril, 
and  the  restless  play  of  the  lips.  Philip  looked  hard 
and  gravely,  and  the  man  returned  his  look. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  me,  young  gentleman?"  asked 
the  passenger,  as  he  replaced  the  pipe  in  his  mouth.  "  I 
am  a  fine-looking  man,  am  I  not]" 

"  You  seem  a  strange  one." 

"  Strange  !  Ay,  I  puzzle  you,  as  I  have  done,  and  shall 
do  many.  You  cannot  read  me  as  easily  as  I  can  read 
you.  Come,  shall  I  guess  at  your  character  and  circum- 
stances 1  You  are  a  gentleman,  or  something  like  it,  by 
birth — that  the  tone  of  your  voice  tells  me.  You  are 
poor,  devilish  poor — that  the  hole  in  your  coat  assures 
me.  You  are  proud,  fiery,  discontented,  and  unhappy — 
all  that  I  see  in  your  face.  It  was  because  I  saw  those 
signs  that  I  spoke  to  you.  I  volunteer  no  acquaintance 
with  the  happy." 

"  I  dare  say  not ;  for,  if  you  know  all  the  unhappy, 
you  must  have  a  sufficiently  large  acquaintance,"  return- 
ed PhiUp. 

"  Your  wit  is  beyond  your  years  !  What  is  your  call- 
ing, if  the  question  does  not  offend  you  ?" 

*'  I  have  none  as  yet,"  said  Philip,  with  a  slight  sigh 
and  a  deep  blush. 

"More's  the  pity!"  grunted  the  smoker,  with  a  long, 
emphatic,  nasal  intonation.  "  I  should  have  judged  that 
you  were  a  raw  recruit  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy." 

"  Enemy !     I  don't  understand  you." 

"  In  other  words,  a  plant  growing  out  of  a  lawyer's 
desk.  I  will  explain.  There  is  one  class  of  spiders, 
industrious,  hard-working  octopedes,  who,  out  of  the 
sweat  of  their  brains  (I  take  it,  by-the-by,  that  a  spider 
must  have  a  fine  craniological  development),  make  their 
own  webs  and  catch  their  own  flies.  There  is  another 
class  of  spiders  who  have  no  stuff  in  them  wherewith  to 
make  webs  ;  they,  therefore,  wander  about,  looking  out 
for  food  provided  by  the  toil  of  their  neighbours.  When- 
ever they  come  to  the  web  of  a  smaller  spider,  whose 
larder  seems  well  suppliedi  they  rush  upon  his  doaiaiJi 


68  NIGHt    AND    MORNING. 

■^pursue  him  to  his  hole — eat  him  up  if  they  can— ^re- 
ject him  if  he  is  too  tough  for  their  maws — and  quietly 
possess  themselves  of  all  the  legs  and  wings  they  find 
dangling  in  his  meshes  :  these  spiders  I  call  enemies— 
the  world  calls  them  lawyers  !" 

Philip  laughed;  "  And  who  are  the  first  class  of  spi- 
ders r' 

"  Honest  creatures,  who  openly  confess  that  they  live 
upon  flies.  Lawyers  fall  foul  upon  them,  under  pretence 
of  delivering  flies  from  their  clutches.  They  are  won- 
derful bloodsuckers,  these  lawyers,  in  spite  of  all  their 
hypocrisy.     Ha!  ha!     Ho!  ho!" 

And  with  a  loud,  rough  chuckle,  more  expressive  of 
malignity  than  mirth,  the  man  turned  himself  round, 
applied  himself  vigorously  to  his  pipe,  and  sank  into 
a  silence  which,  as  mile  after  mile  glided  past  the 
■wheels,  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  break.  Neither 
was  Philip  inclined  to  be  communicative.  Considera- 
tions for  his  own  state  and  prospects  swallowed  up  the 
curiosity  he  might  otherwise  have  felt  as  to  his  singular 
neighbour.  He  had  not  touched  food  since  the  early 
morning.  Anxiety  had  made  him  insensible  to  hunger 
till  he  arrived  at  Mr.  Plaskwith's ;  and  then,  feverish, 
sore,  and  sick  at  hearty  the  sight  of  the  luxuries  gra- 
cing the  tea-table  only  revolted  him.  He  did  not  now 
feel  hunger,  but  he  was  fatigued  and  faint.  For  several 
nights,  the  sleep  which  youth  can  so  ill  dispense  with 
had  been  broken  and  disturbed  ;  and  now,  the  rapid  mo- 
tion of  the  coach,  and  the  free  current  of  a  fresher  and 
more  exhausting  air  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  for 
many  months,  began  to  operate  on  his  nerves  like  the 
intoxication  of  a  narcotic.  His  eyes  grew  heavy ;  in- 
distinct mists,  through  which  there  seemed  to  glare  the 
various  squints  of  the  female  Plaskwiths,  succeeded  the 
gliding  road  and  the  dancing  trees.  His  head  fell  on  his 
bosom ;  and  thence,  instinctively  seeking  the  strongest 
support  at  hand,  inclined  towards  the  stout  smoker, 
and  finally  nestled  itself  composedly  on  that  gentle- 
man's shoulder.  The  passenger,  feeling  this  unwelcome 
weight,  took  the  pipe,  which  he  liad  already  thrice  re- 
fillcii,  from  his  lips,  and  cniitled  an  angry  and  impatient 
snort ;  finding  that  tliis  produced  no  efiect,  and  that  the 
load  grew  heavier  as  the  boy's  sleep  grew  deeper,  he 
cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Holla!  I  did  not  pay  my  fare  to 
be  your  bolster^  young  man !"  and  shook  himself  lustily. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  69 

Philip  started,  and  would  have  fallen  sidelong  from  the 
coach  if  his  neighbour  had  not  griped  him  hard  with  a 
hand  that  could  have  kept  a  young  oak  from  falling. 

"  Rouse  yourself!  You  might  have  had  an  ugly  tum- 
ble." 

Philip  muttered  something  inaudible  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  and  turned  his  dark  eyes  towards  the  man ; 
in  that  glance  there  was  so  much  unconscious,  but  sad 
and  deep  reproach,  that  the  passenger  felt  touched  and 
ashamed.  Before,  however,  he  could  say  anything  in 
apology  or  conciliation,  Philip  had  again  fallen  asleep. 
But  this  time,  as  if  he  had  felt  and  resented  the  rebuff 
he  had  received,  he  inclined  his  head  away  from  his 
neighbour,  against  the  edge  of  a  box  on  the  roof:  a  dan- 
gerous pillow,  from  which  any  sudden  jolt  might  trans- 
fer him  to  the  road  below. 

"  Poor  lad !  he  looks  pale  !"  muttered  the  man ;  and  he 
knocked  the  weed  from  his  pipe,  and  placed  it  gently  in 
his  pocket.  "  Perhaps  the  smoke  was  too  much  for  him  ? 
he  seems  ill  and  thin  ;"  and  he  took  the  boy's  long,  lean 
fingers  in  his  own.  "  His  cheek  is  hollow  !  What  do  I 
know  but  it  may  be  with  fasting  ?  Pooh !  I  was  a  brute. 
Hush,  coachee,  hush !  Don't  talk  so  loud,  and  be  d — d 
to  you — he  will  certainly  be  off;"  and  the  man  softly  and 
creepingly  encircled  the  boy's  waist  with  his  huge  arm. 
"  Now,  then,  to  shift  his  head ;  so — so — that's  right." 
Philip's  sallow  cheek  and  long  hair  were  now  tenderly 
lapped  on  the  soliloquist's  bosom.  "  Poor  wretch !  he 
smiles :  perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  home,  and  the  butter- 
flies he  ran  after  when  he  was  an  urchin  ;  they  never 
come  back,  those  days — never — never — never!  I  think 
the  wind  veers  to  the  east ;  he  may  catch  cold ;"  and 
with  that,  the  man,  gliding  the  head  for  a  moment,  and 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman,  from  his  breast  to  his 
shoulder,  unbuttoned  his  coal  (as  ho  replaced  the  weight, 
no  longer  unwelcome,  in  its  former  part),  and  drew  the 
lappets  closely  round  the  slender  frame  of  the  sleeper, 
exposing  his  own  sturdy  breast — for  he  wore  no  waist- 
coat— to  the  sharpening  air.  Thus  cradled  on  that  stran- 
ger's bosom,  wrapped  from  the  present,  and  dreaming, 
perhaps — while  a  heart  scorched  by  fierce  and  terrible 
struggles  with  life  and  sin  made  his  pillow — of  a  fair  and 
unsullied  futi  re,  slept  the  fatherless  and  friendless  boy. 


to  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*'  Constance.     My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world, 
My  widow-comfort." — King  John. 

Amtd  the  glare  of  the  lamps,  the  rattle  of  carriages, 
the  lumbering  of  carts  and  wagons — the  throng,  the  clam- 
our, the  reeking  life  and  dissonant  roar  of  London,  Philip 
woke  from  his  happy  sleep.  He  woke,  uncertain  and 
confused,  and  saw  strange  eyes  bent  on  him  kindly  and 
watchfully. 

"  You  have  slept  well,  my  lad  !"  said  the  passenger,  in 
the  deep,  ringing  voice  which  made  itself  heard  above 
all  the  noises  round. 

"  And  you  have  suffered  me  to  incommode  you  thusl" 
said  Philip,  with  more  gratitude  in  his  voice  and  look 
than,  perhaps,  he  had  shown  to  any  one  out  of  his  own 
family  since  his  birth. 

"  You  have  had  but  little  kindness  shown  you,  my 
poor  boy,  if  you  think  so  much  of  this  V 

"  No — all  people  were  very  kind  to  me  once.  I  did 
not  value  it  then."  Here  the  coach  rolled  lieavily  down 
the  dark  arch  of  the  inn-yard. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  my  boy !  You  look  ill ;" 
and  in  the  dark  the  man  slipped  a  sovereign  into  Philip's 
hand. 

"  I  don't  want  money,  though  I  thank  you  heartily  all 
the  same ;  it  would  be  a  shame  at  my  age  to  be  a  beg- 
gar. But  can  you  think  of  an  employment  where  I  can 
make  something'! — \Vhat  they  offer  me  is  so  trifling.  I 
have  a  mother  and  a  brother — a  mere  child,  sir — at 
home." 

"  Employnlent !"  repeated  the  man  ;  and,  as  the  coach 
now  stopped  at  the  tavern  door,  the  light  from  the  lamp 
fell  full  on  his  marked  face.  "  Ay,  1  know  of  employ- 
ment ;  but  you  should  apply  to  some  one  else  to  obtain 
it  for  you  !  As  for  me,  it  is  not  likely  that  we  shall 
meet  again !" 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that !     What  and  who  are   you  V  (^ 
asked  Philip,  with  rude  and  blunt  curiosity. 

"  Me  !"  returned  the  passenger,  with  his  deep  laugh  ; 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  71 

f^'  oh  \  I  know  some  people  who  call  me  an  honest  fel- 
low. Take  the  employment  offered  you,  no  matter  how 
trifling  :  keep  out  ol'  harm's  way.     Good-night  to  you  !" 

So  saying,  he  quickly  descended  from  the  roof ;  and,  ag 
he  was  directing  the  coachman  where  to  look  for  his 
carpet  bag,  Philip  saw  three  or  four  well-dressed-look- 
ing men  make  up  to  him,  shake  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
and  welcome  him  with  great  seeming  cordiality. 

Philip  sighed.  "  He  has  friends,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self ;  and,  paying  his  fare,  he  turned  from  the  bustling 
yard,  and  took  his  solitary  way  home. 

A  week  after  his  visit  to  li ,  Philjp  was  settled  on 

his  probation  at  Mr.  Plaskwith's,  and  Mrs.  Morton's 
health  was  so  decidedly  worse,  that  she  resolved  to 
know  her  fate,  and  consult  a  physician.  The  oracle 
was  at  first  ambiguous  in  its  response.  But  when  Mrs. 
Morton  said  firmly,  "  I  have  duties  to  perform  :  upon 
your  candid  answer  rest  my  plans  with  respect  to  my 
children — left,  if  I  die  suddenly,  destitute  in  the  world," 
the  doctor  looked  hard  in  her  face,  saw  its  calm  resolu- 
tion, and  replied  frankly, 

"  Lose  no  time,  then,  in  arranging  your  plans  :  life  is 
uncertain  with  all — with  you  especially  ;  you  may  live 
some  time  yet,  but  your  constitution  is  much  shaken; 
I  fear  there  is  water  on  the  chest.  No,  ma'am,  no 
fee.     I  will  see  you  again." 

The  physician  turned  to  Sidney,  who  played  with  his 
watch-chain,  and  smiled  up  in  his  face. 

*'  And  that  child,  sir?"  said  the  mother,  wistfully,  for- 
getting the  dread  fiat  pronounced  against  herself;  "he 
is  so  delicate !" 

"  Not  at  all,  ma'am — a  very  fine  little  fellow ;"  and 
the  doctor  patted  the  boy's  head  and  abmptly  vanished. 

"  Ah !  mamma,  I  wish  you  would  ride — I  wish  you 
would  take  the  white  pony !" 

"Poor  boy!  poor  boy!"  muttered  the  mother;  "I 
must  not  be  selfish."  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  began  to  think. 

Could  she,  thus  doomed,  resolve  on  declining  her 
brother's  offer  1  Did  it  not,  at  least,  secure  bread  and 
shelter  to  her  child  ?  When  she  was  dead,  might  not  a 
tie  between  the  uncle  and  nephew  be  snapped  asunder  ] 
Would  he  be  as  kind  to  the  boy  as  now,  when  she  could 
commend  him  with  her  own  lips  to  his  care — when  she 
could  place  that  precious  charge  into  his  hands  t     With 


73  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

these  thoughts,  she  formed  one  of  those  resolutions 
which  have  all  the  strength  of  self-sacrificing  love. 
She  would  put  the  boy  from  her,  her  last  solace  and 
comfort ;  she  would  die  alone — alone  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Contsance.  When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
I  shall  not  know  him." — King  John. 

One  evening,  the  shop  closed  and  the  business  done, 
Mr.  Roger  Morton  and  his  family  sat  in  that  snug  and 
comfortable  retreat  which  generally  backs  the  ware- 
rooms  of  an  English  tradesman.  Happy  often,  and  in- 
deed happy,  is  that  little  sanctuary,  near  to,  and  yet  re- 
mote from,  the  toil  and  care  of  the  busy  mart  from 
which  its  homely  ease  and  peaceful  security  are  drawn. 
Glance  down  those  rows  of  silenced  shops  in  a  town  at 
night,  and  picture  the  glad  and  quiet  groups  gathered 
within,-  over  that  nightly  and  social  meal  which  custom 
has  banished  from  the  more  indolent  tribes  who  neither 
toil  nor  spin.  Placed  between  the  two  extremes  of  life, 
the  tradesman  who  ventures  not  beyond  his  means,  and 
sees  clear  books  and  sure  gains,  with  enough  of  occu- 
pation to  give  healthful  excitement,  enough  of  fortune  to 
greet  each  nevv^-born  child  without  a  sigh,  might  be  en- 
vied alike  by  those  above  and  those  below  his  state — if 
the  restless  heart  of  man  ever  envied  content ! 

"  And  so  the  little  boy  is  not  to  come  V  said  Mrs. 
Morton,  as  she  crossed  her  knife  and  fork,  and  pushed 
away  her  plate,  in  token  that  she  had  done  supper. 

"  I  don't  know.  Children,  go  to  bed  ;  there — there-— 
that  will  do.  Good-night !  Catharine  does  not  say  ei- 
ther yes  or  no.     She  wants  time  to  consider." 

"  It  was  a  very  handsome  offer  on  our  part :  some 
folks  never  know  when  they  are  well  off." 

"  That  is  very  true,  my  dear,  and  you  are  a  very  sen- 
sible person.  Kate  herself  might  liave  been  an  honest 
woman,  and,  wliat  is  more,  a  very  rich  woman  by  this 
time.  Slio  might  have  married  Spencer,  the  young 
brewer — an  excellent  man,  and  well  to  do !" 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  73 

'•  Spencer !    I  don't  remember  him." 

"  No  :  after  she  went  off,  he  retired  from  business  and 
left  the  place.  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  him. 
He  was  mightily  taken  with  her,  to  be  sure.  She  was 
uncommonly  handsome,  my  sister  Catharine." 

"  Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  Mr.  Morton,"  said 
the  wife,  who  was  very  much  marked  with  the  smallpox. 
"  We  all  have  our  temptations  and  trials  :  this  is  a  vale 
of  tears,  and  without  grace  we  are  whited  sepulchres." 

Mr.  Morton  mixed  his  brandy  and  water,  and  moved 
his  chair  into  its  customary  corner. 

"  You  saw  your  brother's  letter,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  he  gives  young  PhiUp  a  very  good  character." 

"The  human  heart  is  very  deceitful,"  repUed  Mrs. 
Morton,  who,  by-the-way,  spoke  through  her  nose. 
"  Pray  Heaven  he  may  be  what  he  seems ;  but  what's 
bred  in  the  bone  conges  out  in  the  flesh." 

"  We  must  hope  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  mildly ; 
"  and — put  another  lump  into  the  grog,  my  dear." 

"  It  is  a  mercy,  I'm  thinking,  that  we  didn't  have  the 
other  little  boy.  I  dare  say  he  has  never  even  been 
taught  his  catechism  :  them  people  don't  know  what  it 
IS  to  be  a  mother.  And,  besides,  it  would  have  been 
very  awkward,  Mr.  M. ;  we  could  never  have  said  who 
he  was ;  and  I've  no  doubt  Miss  Pryinall  Avould  have 
been  very  curious." 

"  Miss  Pryinall  be !"  Mr.  Morton  checked  him- 
self, took  a  large  draught  of  the  brandy  and  water,  and 
added,  "  Miss  Pryinall  wants  to  have  a  finger  in  every- 
body's pie." 

"  But  she  buys  a  deal  of  flannel,  and  does  great  good 
to  the  town :  it  was  she  who  found  out  that  Mrs.  Giles 
was  no  better  than  she  should  be." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Giles !  she  came  to  the  workhouse." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Giles  indeed !  I  wonder,  Mr.  Morton, 
that  you,  a  married  man,  with  a  family,  should  say  poor 
Mrs.  Giles !" 

"  My  dear,  when  people  who  have  been  well  off  come 
to  the  workhouse,  they  may  be  called  poor  :  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there ;  only,  if  the  boy  does  come  to 
us,  we  must  look  sharp  upon  Miss  Pryinall." 

"  I  hope  he  won't  come ;  it  will  be  very  unpleasant. 
And  when  a  man  has  a  wife  and  family,  the  less  he  med- 
dles with  other  folks  and  their  little  ones,  the  better. 

Vol.  I.— G 


74  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

For,  as  the  Scripture  says,  '  A  man  shall  cleave  to  his 
wife,  and — '  " 

Here  a  sharp,  shrill  ring  at  the  bell  was  heard,  and 
Mrs.  Morton  broke  off  into, 

"  Well !  I  declare  !  at  this  hour — who  can  that  be  1 
And  all  gone  to  bed !     Do  go  and  see,  Mr.  Morton." 

Somewhat  reluctantly  and  slowly,  Mr.  Morton  rose, 
and,  proceeding  to  the  passage,  unbarred  the  door.  A 
brief  and  muttered  conversation  followed,  to  the  great 
irritability  of  Mrs.  Morton,  who  stood  in  the  passage, 
the  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  M.  ]" 

Mr.  Morton  turned  back,  looking  agitated. 

"  Where's  my  hat?  Oh,  here.  Mysister  is  come  at 
the  inn." 

"  Gracious  me !  She  does  not  go  for  to  say  she  is 
your  sister  V 

"  No,  no — here's  her  note — calls  herself  a  lady  that's 
ill.     I  shall  be  back  soon." 

"  She  can't  come  here — she  sha'n't  come  here,  Mr.  M. 
I'm  an  honest  woman — she  can't  come  here.  You  un- 
derstand— " 

Mr.  Morton  had  naturally  a  stern  countenance — stern 
to  every  one  but  his  wife.  The  shrill  tone  to  which  he 
was  so  long  accustomed  jarred  then  on  his  heart  as  well 
as  ear.     He  frowned  : 

"  Pshaw  !  woman,  you  have  no  feeling!"  said  he,  and 
walked  out  of  the  house,  pulling  his  hat  over  his  brows. 

That  was  the  ortly  rude  speech  Mr.  Morton  had  ever 
made  to  his  better  half.  She  treasured  it  up  in  her  heart 
and  memory ;  it  was  associated  with  the  sister  and  the 
child ;  and  she  was  not  a  woman  who  ever  forgave. 

Mr.  Morton  walked  rapidly  through  the  still,  moon-lit 
streets  till  he  reached  the  inn.  A  club  was  held  that 
night  in  one  of  the  rooms  below ;  and,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  the  sound  of  "  hip — hip — hurrah  !"  mingled 
with  the  stamping  of  feet  and  the  jingling  of  glasses, 
saluted  his  entrance.  He  was  a  stiff,  sober,  respectable 
man ;  a  man  who,  except  at  elections — he  was  a  great 
politician — mixed  in  none  of  the  revels  of  his  more  bois- 
terous townsmen.  The  sounds,  the  spot,  were  ungenial 
to  him.  He  paused,  and  the  colour  of  shame  rose  to 
his  brow.  He  was  ashamed  to  be  there ;  ashamed  to 
meet  the  desolate,  and,  as  he  believed,  erring  sister. 
f      A  pretty  maid-servant,  heated  and  flushed  with  orders 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  75 

and  compliments,  crossed  his  path  with  a  tray  full  of 
glasses. 

"  There's  a  lady  come  by  the  Telegraph  1" 

"Yes,  sir,  up  stairs,  No.  2,  Mr.  Morton." 

Mr.  Morton !  He  shrunk  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
name.  "  My  wife's  right,"  he  muttered.  "  After  all, 
this  is  more  unpleasant  than  I  thought  for." 

The  slight  stairs  shook  under  his  hasty  tread.  He 
opened  the  door  of  No.  2,  and  that  Catharine  whom  he 
had  last  seen  at  the  age  of  gay  sixteen,  radiant  with 
bloom,  and,  but  for  her  air  of  pride,  the  model  for  a 
Hebe — that  Catharine,  old  ere  youth  was  gone,  pale,  fa- 
ded, the  dark  hair  silvered  over,  the  cheeks  hollow,  and 
the  eye  dim — that  Catharine  fell  upon  his  breast ! 

"  God  bless  you,  brother  !  How  kind  to  come  !  How 
long  since  we  have  met !" 

"  Sit  down,  Catharine,  my  dear  sister.  You  are 
faint — you  are  very  much  changed — very.  I  should  not 
have  known  you." 

"  Brother,  I  have  brought  my  boy  :  it  is  painful  to 
part  from  him — very — very  painful ;  but  it  is  right,  and 
God's  will  be  done."  She  turned  as  she  spoke  towards 
a  httle,  deformed,  rickety  dwarf  of  a  sofa,  that  seemed 
to  hide  itself  in  the  darkest  comer  of  the  low,  gloomy 
room  ;  and  Morton  followed  her.  With  one  hand  she 
removed  the  shawl  that  she  had  thrown  over  the  child, 
and,  placing  the  fore  finger  of  the  other  upon  her  lips — 
lips  that  smiled  then — she  whispered,  "  We  will  not 
wake  him,  he  is  so  tired.  But  I  would  not  put  him  to 
bed  till  you  had  seen  him." 

And  there  slept  poor  Sidney,  his  fair  cheek  pillowed 
on  his  arm ;  the  soft,  silky  ringlets  thrown  from  the  del- 
icate and  unclouded  brow  ;  the  natural  bloom  increased 
by  warmth  and  travel ;  the  lovely  face  so  innocent  and 
hushed  ;  the  breathing  so  gentle  and  regular,  as  if  never 
broken  by  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Morton  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

There  was  something  very  touching  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween that  wakeful,  anxious,  forlorn  woman,  and  the 
slumber  of  the  unconscious  boy.  And  in  that  moment, 
what  breast  upon  which  the  light  of  Christian  pity — of 
natural  affection  had  ever  dawned,  would,  even  sup- 
posing the  world's  judgment  were  true,  have  recalled 
Catharine's  reputed  error  T  There  is  so  divine  a  holi- 
ness in  the  love  of  a  mother,  that,  no  matter  how  the  tie 


76  NIGHT   iND    MORNING. 

that  binds  her  to  the  child  was  formed,  she  becomes,  as 
it  were,  consecrated  and  sacred ;  and  the  past  is  forgot- 
ten, and  the  world  and  its  harsh  verdicts  swept  away 
when  that  love  alone  is  visible  ;  and  the  God  who  watch- 
es over  the  little  one  sheds  his  smile  over  the  human 
deputy,  in  whose  tenderness  there  breathes  His  own  ! 

"  You  will  be  kind  to  him — wiU  you  not  1"  said  Mrs; 
Morton  ;  and  the  appeal  was  made  with  that  trustful,  al- 
most cheerful  tone  which  implies,  "  Who  would  not  be 
kind  to  a  thing  so  fair  and  helpless  V  "  He  is  very  sen- 
sitive and  very  docile  ;  you  will  never  have  occasion  to 
say  a  hard  word  to  him — never  !  You  have  children  of 
your  own,  brother  !" 

"  He  is  a  beautiful  boy — beautiful.  I  will  be  a  father 
to  him !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  recollection  of  his  wife — sour,  quer- 
ulous, austere — came  over  him  ;  but  he  said  to  himself, 
''  She  must  take  to  such  a  child :  women  always  take  to 
beauty." 

He  bent  down,  and  gently  pressed  his  lips  to  Sidney's 
forehead.  Mrs.  Morton  replaced  the  shawl,  and  drew 
her  brother  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  colouring  as  she  spoke, "  I  must 
see  your  wife,  brother  :  there  is  much  to  say  about  a 
child  that  only  a  woman  will  recollect !  Is  she  very 
good-tempered  and  kind,  your  wife  ]  You  know  I  nev- 
er saw  her  ;  you  married  after — after  I  left." 

"•  She  is  a  verj.'  worthy  woman,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
clearing  his  throat,  "  and  brought  me  some  money ;  she 
has  a  will  of  her  own,  as  most  women  have — but  that's 
neither  h^re  nor  there  ;  she  is  a  good  wife  as  wives  go, 
and  prudent  and  painstaking  ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  without  her." 

"  Brother^  I  have  one  favour  to  request — a  great  fa- 
vour." 

"  Anything  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  money  1" 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  money.  I  can't  live  long 
— don't  shake  your  head — I  can't  live  long.  I  have  no 
fear  for  Philip ;  he  has  so  much  spirit — such  strength  of 
character ;  but  that  child  I  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  him 
altogether  :  let  me  stay  in  this  town — 1  can  lodge  any- 
where ;  but  to  see  him  sometimes — to  know  I  shall  be 
in  reach  if  he  is  ill — let  me  stay  here — let  me  die  here  !" 

"  You  must  not  talk  so  sadly  :  you  are  young  yet — 
younger  than  I  am  :  /  don't  think  of  dying." 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  77 

*'  Heaven  forbid !  but — " 

"Well,  well!"  interrupted  Mr.  Morton,  who  began  to 
fear  his  feelings  would  hurry  him  into  some  promise 
which  his  wife  would  not  suffer  him  to  keep,  "  you  shall 
talk  to  Margaret — that  is,  to  Mrs.  Morton  ;  I  will  get  her 
to  see  you — yes,  I  think  I  can  contrive  that ;  and  if  you 
can  arrange  with  her  to  stay — but,  you  see,  as  she 
brought  the  money,  and  is  a  very  particular  woman — " 

"  I  will  see  her — thank  you,  thank  you — she  cannot 
refuse  me." 

"  And,  brother,"  resumed  Mrs.  Morton,  after  a  short 
pause,  and  speaking  in  a  firm  voice,  "  and  is  it  possible 
that  you  disbelieve  my  story  ?  that  you,  like  all  the  rest, 
consider  my  children  the  sons  of  shame  V 

There  was  an  honest  earnestness  in  Catharine's  voice 
as  she  spoke  that  might  have  convinced  many.  But 
Mr.  Morton  was  a  man  of  facts — a  practical  man — a 
man  who  believed  that  law  was  always  right,  and  that 
the  improbable  was  never  true. 

He  looked  down  as  he  answered,  "  I  think  you  have 
been  a  very  ill-used  woman,  Catharine,  and  that  is  all  I 
can  say  on  that  matter  :  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

"  No !  I  was  not  ill  used  ;  my  husband — yes,  my 
husband — was  noble  and  generous  from  first  to  last.  It 
was  for  the  sake  of  his  children's  prospects,  for  the  ex- 
pectations they,  through  him,  might  derive  from  his 
groud  uncle,  that  he  concealed  our  marriage.  Do  not 
lame  Phihp — do  not  condemn  the  dead." 

"  I  don't  want  to  blame  any  one,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
rather  angrily  ;  "  I  am  a  plain  man,  a  tradesman,  and 
can  only  go  by  what  in  my  class  seems  fair  and  honest, 
which  I  can't  think  Mr.  Beaufort's  conduct  was,  put  it 
how  you  will ;  if  he  marries  you  as  you  think,  he  gets 
rid  of  a  witness,  he  destroys  a  certificate,  and  he  dies 
without  a  will.  However,  all  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  You  do  quite  right  not  to  take  the  name  of  Beau- 
fort, since  it  is  an  uncommon  name,  and  would  always 
make  the  story  public.  Least  said  soonest  mended. 
You  must  always  consider  that  your  children  will  be 
called  natural  children,  and  have  their  own  way  to  make. 
No  harm  in  that  1  Warm  day  for  your  journey."  Cath- 
arine sighed  and  wiped  her  eyes :  she  no  longer  re- 
proached the  world,  since  the  son  of  her  own  mother 
disbelieved  her. 

The  relations  talked  together  for  some  minutes  on  the 
G2 


78  NIGHT   AND   MORNING 

past — the  present ;  but  there  was  embarrassment  and 
constraint  on  both  sides — it  was  so  difficult  to  avoid  one 
subject ;  and,  after  sixteen  years  of  absence,  there  is  lit- 
tle left  in  common,  even  between  those  who  once  played 
together  round  their  parents'  knees.  Mr.  Morton  was 
glad  at  last  to  find  an  excuse  in  Catharine's  fatigue  to 
leave  her.  "  Cheer  up,  and  take  a  glass  of  something 
warm  before  you  goto  bed.  Good-night!"  These  were 
his  parting  words. 

Long  was  the  conference  and  sleepless  the  couch  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton.  At  first,  that  estimable  lady  pos- 
itively declared  she  would  not  and  could  not  visit  Cath- 
arine :  as  to  receiving  her,  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
But  she  secretly  resolved  to  give  up  that  point,  in  order 
to  insist  with  greater  strength  upon  another,  viz.,  the 
impossibility  of  Catharine  remaining  in  the  town,  such 
concession  for  the  purpose  of  resistance  being  a  very 
common  and  sagacious  policy  with  married  ladies.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  suddenly,  and  with  a  good  grace,  Mrs. 
Morton  appeared  affected  by  her  husband's  eloquence, 
and  said,  "  Well,  poor  thing !  if  she  is  so  ill,  and  you 
wish  it  so  much,  I  will  call  to-morrow,"  Mr.  Morton 
felt  his  heart  softened  towards  the  many  excellent  rea- 
sons which  his  wife  urged  against  allowing  Catharine  to 
reside  in  the  town.  He  was  a  political  character ;  he 
had  many  enemies  ;  the  story  of  his  seduced  sister,  now 
forgotten,  would  certainly  be  raked  up ;  it  would  affect 
his  comfort,  perhaps  his  trade,  certainly  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter, who  was  now  thirteen;  it  would  be  impossible,  then, 
to  adopt  the  plan  hitherto  resolved  upon — of  passing  off 
Sidney  as  the  legitimate  orphan  of  a  distant  relation ;  it 
would  be  made  a  great  handle  for  gossip  by  Miss  Pryin- 
all.  Added  to  all  these  relations,  one  not  less  strong 
occurred  to  Mr.  Morton  himself:  the  uncommon  and 
merciless  rigidity  of  his  wife  would  render  all  the  other 
women  in  the  town  very  glad  of  any  topic  that  would 
humble  her  own  sense  of  immaculate  propriety.  More- 
over, he  saw  that,  if  Catharine  did  remain,  it  would  be  a 
perpetual  source  of  irritation  in  his  own  home  ;  he  was 
a  man  who  liked  an  easy  life,  and  avoided,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, all  food  for  domestic  worry.  And  thus,  when  at 
length  the  wedded  pair  turned  back  to  back,  and  com- 
posed themselves  to  sleep,  the  conditions  of  peace  were 
settled,  and  the  weak  party,  as  usual  in  diplomacy,  sac- 
iificed  t6  the  interests  of  the  united  powers. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  ^9 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Morton  sallied 
out  on  her  husband's  arm.  Mr.  Morton  was  rather  a 
handsome  man,  with  an  air  and  look  grave,  composed, 
severe,  that  had  tended  much  to  raise  his  character  in 
the  town.  Mrs.  Morton  was  short,  wiry,  and  bony. 
She  had  won  her  husband  by  making  desperate  love  to 
him,  to  say  nothing  of  a  dower  that  enabled  him  to  ex- 
tend his  business,  new  paint  as  well  as  new  stock  his 
shop,  and  rise  into  the  very  first  rank  of  tradesmen  in 
his  native  town.  He  still  believed  that  she  was  excess- 
ively fond  of  him  ;  a  common  delusion  of  husbands,  es- 
pecially when  henpecked.  Mrs.  Morton  was,  perhaps, 
fond  of  hmi  in  her  own  way ;  for,  though  her  heart  was 
not  warm,  there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  fondness  with 
very  little  feeling.  The  worthy  lady  was  now  clothed 
in  her  best.  She  had  a  proper  pride  in  showing  the  re- 
wards that  belong  to  female  virtue.  Flowers  adorned 
ner  Leghorn  bonnet,  and  her  green  silk  gown  boasted 
four  flounces — such  then  was,  I  am  told,  the  fashion. 
She  wore,  also,  a  very  handsome  black  shawl,  extremely 
heavy,  though  the  day  was  oppressively  hot,  and  with  a 
deep  border;  a  smart  Sevigne  broach  of  yellow  topazes 
glittered  in  her  breast ;  a  huge  gilt  serpent  glared  from 
her  waistband ;  her  hair,  or,  more  properly  speaking, 
her  front,  was  tortured  into  very  tight  curls,  and  her  feet 
into  very  tight  half-laced  boots,  from  which  the  fra- 
grance of  new  leather  had  not  yet  departed.  It  was  this 
last  infliction,  for  il  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle,  which 
somewhat  yet  more  acerbated  the  ordinary  acid  of  Mrs. 
Morton's  temper.  The  sweetest  disposition  is  ruffled 
when  the  shoe  pinches  ;  and  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Ro- 
ger Mort.on  was  one  of  those  ladies  who  always  have 
chilblains  in  the  winter  and  corns  in  the  summer. 

"  So  you  say  your  sister  is  a  beauty  ]" 

"  Was  a  beauty,  Mrs.  M. — was  a  beauty.  People  al- 
ter." 

"  A  bad  conscience,  Mr.  Morton,  is — " 

"  My  dear,  can't  you  walk  faster  V 

"  If  you  had  my  corns,  Mr.  Morton,  you  would  not 
talk  in  that  way  !" 

The  happy  pair  sank  into  silence,  only  broken  by 
sundry  "  How  d'ye  do's  V  and  "  Good-morning's  !"  in- 
terchanged with  their  friends,  till  they  arrived  at  the  inn. 

"  Let  us  go  up  quickly,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

And  quiet — quiet  to  gloom,  did  the  inn,  so  noisy  over- 


80  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

night,  seem  by  morning.  The  shutters  partially  closed 
to  keep  out  the  sun  ;  the  taproom  deserted  ;  the  passage 
smelling  of  stale  smoke  ;  an  elderly  dog,  lazily  snapping 
at  the  flies,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase — not  a  soul  to  be 
seen  at  the  bar.  The  husband  and  wife,  glad  to  be  un- 
observed, crept  on  tiptoe  up  the  stairs,  and  entered  Cath- 
arine's apartment. 

Catharine  was  seated  on  the  sofa,  and  Sidney — dress- 
ed, like  Mrs.  Roger  Morton,  to  Igok  his  prettiest,  nor  yet 
aware  of  the  change  that  awaited  his  destiny,  but  pleased 
at  the  excitement  of  seeing  new  friends,  as  handsome 
children  sure  of  praise  and  petting  usually  are — stood  by 
her  side. 

"  My  wife — Catharine,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  Catharine 
rose  eagerly,  and  gazed  searchingly  on  her  sister-in-law's 
hard  face.  She  swallowed  the  convulsive  rising  at  her 
heart  as  she  gazed,  and  stretched  out  both  her  hands, 
not  so  much  to  welcome  as  to  plead.  Mrs.  Roger  Mor- 
ton drew  herself  up,  and  then  dropped  a  courtesy — it  was 
an  involuntary  piece  of  good  breeding — it  was  extorted 
by  the  noble  countenance,  the  matronly  mien  of  Cath- 
arine, different  from  what  she  had  anticipated  —  she 
dropped  the  courtesy,  and  Catharine  took  her  hand  and 
pressed  it. 

"  This  is  my  son ;"  she  turned  away  her  head.  Sid- 
ney advanced  towards  his  protectress  who  was  to  be, 
and  Mrs.  Roger  muttered, 

"  Come  here,  my  dear  !     A  fine  little  boy !" 

"  As  fine  a  child  as  ever  I  saw !"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
heartily,  as  he  took  Sidney  on  his  lap,  and  stroked  dovm 
his  golden  hair. 

This  displeased  Mrs.  Roger  Morton,  hot  she  sat  her- 
self down,  and  said  it  was  "  Very  warm." 

"  Now  go  to  that  lady,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"  Is  she  not  a  very  nice  lady  ?  Don't  you  think  you  shall 
like  her  very  much  1" 

Sidney,  the  best-mannered  child  in  the  world,  went 
boldly  up  to  Mrs.  Morton  as  he  was  bid.  Mrs.  Morton 
was  embarrassed.  Some  folks  are  so  with  other  folk's 
children  :  a  child  either  removes  all  constraint  from  a 
party,  or  it  increases  the  constraint  tenfold.  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton, however,  forced  a  smile,  and  said,  "  I  have  a  little 
boy  at  home  about  your  age." 

"  Have  you  V  exclaimed  Catharine,  eagerly ;  and,  as 
if  that  confession  made  them  friends  at  once,  she  drew 


NIGHT   AND   MORNINd.  81 

a  chair  close  to  her  sister-in-law's :  "  My  brother  has 
told  you  all  V 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  I  shall  stay  here — in  the  town  somewhere — and 
see  him  sometimes  V 

Mrs.  Roger  Morton  glanced  at  her  husband,  her  hus- 
band glanced  at  the  door,  and  Catharine's  quick  eye 
turned  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Mr.  Morton  will  explain  ma'am,"  said  the  wife. 

"  E-hem !  Catharine,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  is  out 
of  the  question,"  began  Mr.  Morton,  who,  when  fairly 
put  to  it,  could  be  business-hke  enough.  "  You  see  by- 
gones are  bygones,  and  it  is  no  use  raking  them  up.  But 
many  people  in  the  town  will  recollect  you." 

"  No  one  will  see  me — no  one,  but  you  and  Sidney." 

"  It  will  be  sure  to  creep  out ;  won't  it,  Mrs.  Morton  V 

"  Quite  sure.  Indeed,  ma'am,  it  is  impossible.  Mr. 
Morton  is  so  very  respectable,  and  his  neighbours  pay 
so  much  attention  to  all  he  does  ;  and  then,  if  we  have 
an  election  in  the  autumn — you  see,  ma'am,  he  has  a 
great  stake  in  the  place,  and  is  a  public  character." 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"  But,  I  say,  Catharine,  can  your  httle  boy  go  into  the 
other  room  for  a  moment  1  Margaret,  suppose  you  take 
him  and  make  friends." 

Delighted  to  throw  on  her  husband  the  burden  of  ex- 
planation, which  she  had  originally  meant  to  have  all  the 
importance  of  giving  herself,  in  her  most  proper  and  pat- 
ronising manner,  Mrs.  Morton  twisted  her  fingers  into 
the  boy's  hand,  and,  opening  the  door  that  communicated 
with  the  bedroom,  left  the  brother  and  sister  alone.  And 
then  Mr.  Morton,  with  more  tact  and  delicacy  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  him,  began  to  soften  to  Cath- 
arine the  hardship  of  the  separation  he  urged.  He  dwelt 
principally  on  what  was  best  for  the  child.  Boys  were 
so  brutal  in  their  intercourse  with  each  other.  He  had 
even  thought  it  better  to  represent  Philip  to  Mr.  Plask- 
with  as  a  more  distant  relation  than  he  was  ;  and  he 
begged,  by-the-by,  that  Catharine  would  tell  Philip  to 
take  the  hint.  But  as  for  Sidney,  sooner  or  later  he 
would  go  to  a  dayschool — have  companions  of  his  own 
age  ;  if  his  birth  were  known,  he  would  be  exposed  to 
many  mortifications — so  much  better,  and  so  very  easy 
to  bring  him  up  as  the  lawful,  that  is,  as  the  legal  ofT- 
spring  of  some  distant  relation. 


82  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"And,"  cried  poor  Catharine,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  when  I  ara  dead,  is  he  never  to  know  that  I  was  his 
mother  T" 

The  anguish  of  that  question  thrilled  the  heart  of  the 
listener.  He  was  affected  below  all  the  surface  that 
worldly  thoughts  and  habits  had  laid,  stratum  by  stra- 
tum, over  the  humanities  within.  He  threw  his  arms 
round  Catharine,  and  strained  her  to  his  breast : 

"  No,  my  sister,  my  poor  sister,  he  shall  know  it  when 
he  is  old  enough  to  understand  and  to  keep  his  own  se- 
cret. He  shall  know,  too,  how  we  all  loved  and  prized 
you  once — how  young  you  were — how  flattered  and 
tempted — how  you  were  deceived  ;  for  I  know  that — on 
my  soul  I  do — I  kfiow  it  was  not  your  fault.  He  shall 
know,  too,  how  fondly  you  loved  your  child,  and  how 
you  sacrificed,  for  his  sake,  the  very  comfort  of  being 
near  him.     He  shall  know  it  all — all !" 

"  My  brother,  my  brother,  I  resign  him — I  am  content. 
God  reward  you.  I  will  go — go  quickly.  I  know  you 
will  take  care  of  him  now." 

"  And  you  see,"  resumed  Mr.  Morton,  resettUng  him- 
self and  wiping  his  eyes,  "  it  is  best,  between  you  and 
me,  that  Mrs.  Morton  should  have  her  own  way  in  this. 
She  is  a  very  good  woman — very  ;  but  it  is  prudent  not 
to  vex  her.    You  may  come  in  now,  Mrs.  Morton." 

Mrs.  Morton  and  Sidney  reappeared. 

"  We  have  settled  it  all,"  said  the  husband.  "  When 
can  we  have  him  V 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Roger  Morton ;  "  you  see, 
ma'am,  we  must  get  his  bed  ready,  and  his  sheets  well 
aired  :  I  am  very  particular." 

"  Certainly,  certainly.  Will  he  sleep  alone  1— pardon 
me." 

"  He  shall  have  a  room  to  himself,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"  Eh,  my  dear  T  Next  to  Martha's.  Martha  is  our  par- 
lour-maid— very  good-natured  girl,  and  fond  of  children." 

Mrs.  Morton  looked  grave,  thought  a  moment,  and 
said,  "  Yes,  he  can  have  that  room." 

"  Who  can  have  that  room  V  asked  Sidney,  inno- 
cently. 

"  You,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Morton. 

"  And  where  will  mamma  sleep  1  I  must  sleep  near 
mamma." 

"  Mamma  is  going  away,"  said  Catharine,  in  a  firm 
voice,  in  v^rhich  the  despair  would  only  have  been  felt 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  83 

by  the  acute  ear  of  sympathy ;  "  going  away  for  a  Utile 
time ;  but  this  gentleman  and  lady  will  be  very,  very 
kind  to  you." 

"  We  will  do  our  best,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

And,  as  she  spoke,  a  sudden  light  broke  on  the  boy'g 
mind  ;  he  uttered  a  loud  cry,  broke  from  his  aunt,  rushed 
to  his  mother's  breast,  and  hid  his  face  there,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  been  very  much  spoiled,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Roger  Morton.  "  I  don't  think  we  need  stay 
any  longer — it  will  look  suspicious.  Good-morning, 
ma'am  ;  we  shall  be  ready  to-morrow." 

"  Good-by,  Catharine,"  said  Mr.  Morton  ;  and  he  add- 
ed, as  he  kissed  her,  "  Be  of  good  heart ;  I  will  come  up 
by  myself  and  spend  the  evening  with  you." 

It  was  the  night  after  this  interview.  Sidney  had 
gone  to  his  new  home  ;  they  had  been  all  kind  to  him 
— Mr.  Mortoft,  the  children,  Martha  the  parlour-maid. 
Mrs.  Roger  herself  had  given  him  a  large  slice  of  bread 
and  jam,  but  had  looked  gloomy  all  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing, because,  like  a  dog  in  a  strange  place,  he  refused 
to  eat.  His  little  heart  was  full,  and  his  eyes,  swim- 
ming with  tears,  were  turned  at  every  moment  to  the 
door.  But  he  did  not  show  the  violent  grief  that  might 
have  been  expected.  He  was  naturally  timid,  and  his 
very  desolation,  amid  the  unfamiUar  faces,  awed  and 
chilled  him.  But  when  Martha  took  him  to  bed,  and 
undressed  him,  and  he  knelt  down  to  say  his  prayers, 
and  came  to  the  words,  "  Pray  God  bless  dear  mamma, 
and  make  me  a  good  child,"  his  heart  could  contain  its 
load  no  longer,  and  he  sobbed  with  a  passion  that  alarmed 
the  good-natured  servant.  She  had  been  used,  how- 
ever, to  children,  and  she  soothed  and  caressed  him,  and 
told  him  of  all  the  nice  things  he  would  do,  and  the  nice 
toys  he  would  have ;  and  at  last,  silenced,  if  not  con 
vinced,  his  eyes  closed,  and,  the  tears  yet  wet  on  their 
lashes,  fell  asleep. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Catharine  should  return 
home  that  night  by  a  late  coach,  which  left  the  town  at 
twelve.  It  was  already  past  eleven.  Mrs.  Morton  had 
retired  to  bed ;  and  her  husband,  who  had,  according  to 
his  wont,  lingered  behind  to  smoke  a  cigar  over  his  last 
glass  of  brandy  and  water,  had  just  thrown  aside  the 
stump  and  was  winding  up  his  watch,  when  he  heard  a 
low  tap  at  his  window.   He  stood  mute  and  alarmed,  for 


84  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

the  window  opened  on  a  back  lane,  dark  and  solitary  at 
night,  and,  from  the  heal  of  the  weather,  the  ironcased 
shutter  was  not  yet  closed ;  the  sound  was  repeated, 
and  he  heard  a  faint  voice.  He  glanced  at  the  poker, 
and  then  cautiously  moved  to  the  window,  and  looked 
forth:  "Who's  there r' 

"  It  is  I— it  is  Catharine  !  I  cannot  go  without  seeing 
my  boy.     I  must  see  him— I  must  once  more !" 

"  My  dear  sister,  the  place  is  shut  up — it  is  impossible. 
God  bless  me,  if  Mrs.  Morton  should  hear  you !" 

"  I  have  walked  before  this  window  for  hours — I  have 
waited  till  all  is  hushed  in  your  house — till  no  one,  not 
even  a  menial,  need  see  the  mother  stealing  to  the  bed 
of  her  child.  Brother!  by  the  memory  of  our  own 
mother,  I  command  you  to  let  me  look,  for  the  last  time, 
upon  my  boy's  face  !" 

As  Catharine  said  this,  standing  in  that  lone  street 
— darkness  and  solitude  below,  God  and  the  stars  above 
— there  was  about  her  a  majesty  which  awed  the  listener. 
Though  she  was  so  near,  her  features  were  not  very 
clearly  visible  :  but  her  attitude — her  hand  raised  aloft, 
the  outline  of  her  wasted  but  still  commanding  form, 
were  more  impressive  from  the  shadowy  dimness  of  th .; 
air. 

"  Come  round,  Catharine,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  I  will  admit  you." 

He  shut  the  window,  stole  to  the  door,  unbarred  it 
gently,  and  admitted  his  visiter.  He  bade  her  follow 
him  ;  and,  shading  the  light  with  his  hand,  crept  up  the 
stairs.     Catharine's  step  made  no  sound. 

They  passed,  unmolested  and  unheard,  the  room  in 
which  the  wife  was  drowsily  reading,  according  to  her 
custom,  before  she  tied  her  nightcap  and  got  into  bed,  a 
chapter  in  some  pious  book.  They  ascended  to  the 
chamber  where  Sidney  lay ;  Morton  opened  the  door 
cautiously,  and  stood  at  the  threshold,  so  holding  the 
candle  that  its  light  might  not  wake  the  child,  though  it 
sufficed  to  guide  Catharine  to  the  bed.  The  room  was 
small,  perhaps  close,  but  scrupulously  clean ;  for  clean- 
liness was  Mrs.  Roger  Morton's  capital  virtue.  The 
mother,  with  a  tremulous  hand,  drew  aside  the  white 
curtains,  and  checked  her  sobs  as  she  gazed  on  the 
young,  quiet  face  that  was  turned  towards  her.  She 
gazed  some  moments  in  passionate  silence ;  who  shall 
say,  beneath  that  silence,  what  thoughts,  A'hat  prayers 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  85 

jnoved  and  stirred  1  Then  bending  down,  with  pale, 
convulsive  lips,  she  kissed  the  little  hands  thrown  so 
listlessly  on  the  coverlid  of  the  pillow  on  which  the  head 
lay.  After  this,  she  turned  her  face  to  her  brother,  with 
a  mute  appeal  in  her  glance,  took  a  ring  from  her  finger 
— a  ring  that  had  never  till  then  left  it — the  ring  which 
Philip  Beaufort  had  placed  there  the  day  after  that  child 
was  born.  "  Let  him  wear  this  round  his  neck,"  said 
she,  and  stopped,  lest  she  should  sob  aloud  and  disturb 
the  boy.  In  that  gift  she  felt  as  if  she  invoked  the 
father's  spirit  to  watch  over  the  friendless  orphan ;  and 
then,  pressing  together  her  own  hands  firmly,  as  we  do 
in  some  paroxysm  of  great  pain,  she  turned  from  the 
room,  descended  the  stairs,  gained  the  street,  and  mut- 
tered to  her  brother,  "  I  am  happy  now ;  peace  be  on 
these  thresholds  !"  Before  he  could  answer  she  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Thus  things  are  strangely  wrought, 
While  joyful  May  doth  Igst ; 
Take  May  m  time  ;  when  May  is  gone 
The  pleasant  time  is  past." 
Richard  Edwards  :  from  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  Device*. 

It  was  that  period  of  the  year  when,  to  those  who 
look  on  the  surface  of  society,  London  wears  its  most 
radiant  smile ;  when  shops  are  gayest  and  trade  most 
brisk  ;  when  down  tlie  thoroughfares  roll  and  glitter  the 
countless  streams  of  indolent  and  voluptuous  life  ;  when 
the  upper  class  spend  and  the  middle  class  make;  when 
the  ballroom  is  the  market  of  Beauty,  and  the  clubhouse 
the  school  for  scandal ;  when  the  hells  yawn  for  their 
prey,  and  the  opera-singers  and  fiddlers — creatures 
hatched  from  gold,  as  the  dung-flies  from  the  dung — 
swarm,  and  buzz,  and  fatten  round  the  hide  of  the  gen- 
tle Pubhc.  In  the  cant  phrase,  it  was  "  the  London  sea- 
son." And  happy,  take  it  altogether,  happy  above  the 
rest  of  the  year,  even  for  the  hapless,  is  that  period  of 
ferment  and  fever.  It  is  not  the  season  for  duns,  and 
the  debtor  glides  about  with  legs  anxious  eye ;  and  the 
Vol.  I.— H 


86  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

weather  is  warm,  and  the  vagrant  sleeps,  unfrozen,  un- 
der the  stariit  portico ;  and  the  beggar  thrives,  and  the 
thief  rejoices — for  the  rankness  of  the  civilization  has  su- 
perfluities clutched  by  all.  And  out  of  the  general  cor- 
ruption things  sordid  and  things  miserable  crawl  forth  to 
bask  in  the  common  sunshine — things  that  perish  when 
the  first  autumn-winds  whistle  along  the  melancholy 
city.  It  is  the  gay  time  for  the  heir  and  the  beauty,  and 
the  statesman  and  the  lawyer,  and  the  mother  with  her 
young  daughters,  and  the  artist  with  his  fresh  pictures, 
and  the  poet  with  his  new  book.  It  is  the  gay  time,  too, 
for  the  starved  journeyman,  and  the  ragged  outcast,  that, 
with  long  stride  and  patient  eyes,  follows,  for  pence,  the 
equestrian,  who  bids  him  go  and  be  d — d  in  vain.  It  is 
a  gay  time  for  the  painted  harlot  in  a  crimson  pelisse ; 
and  a  gay  time  for  the  old  hag  that  loiters  round  the 
thresholds  of  the  gin-shop,  to  buy  back,  in  a  draught, 
the  dreams  of  departed  youth.  It  is  gay,  in  fine,  as  the 
fulness  of  a  vast  city  is  ever  gay — for  Vice  as  for  Inno- 
cence, for  Poverty  as  for  Wealth.  And  the  wheels  of 
every  single  destiny  wheel  on  the  merrier,  no  matter 
whether  they  are  bound  to  Heaven  or  to  Hell. 

Arthur  Beaufort,  the  young  heir,  was  at  his  father's 
house.     He  was  fresh  from  Oxford,  where  he  had  al- 
ready discovered  that  learning  is  not  better  than  house 
and  land.     Since  the  new  prospects  opened  to  him,  Ar- 
thur Beaufort  was  greatly  changed.     Naturally  studious 
and  prudent,  had  his  fortunes  remained  what  they  had 
been  before  his  uncle's  death,  he  would  probably  have 
become  a  laborious  and  distinguished  man.    But,  though 
his  abilities  were  good,  he  had  not  those  restless  impul- 
ses which  belong  to  genius — often  not  only  its  glory,  but 
its  curse.     The  golden  rod  cast  his  energies  asleep  at 
once.     Good-natured  to  a  fault,  and  vacillating  in  char- 
acter, he  adopted  the  manner  and  the  code  of  the  rich 
young  idlers  who  were  his  equals  at  college.     He  be- 
came, like   them,  careless,   extravagant,  and   fond  of 
pleasure.     This  change,  if  it  deteriorated  his  mind,  im- 
proved his  exterior.     It  was  a  change  tliat  could  not  but 
please  women  ;  and,  of  all  women,  tiis  mother  the  most. 
Mrs.  Beaufort  was  a  lady  of  high  birth,  and,  in  marry- 
ing her,  Robert  had  hoped  nuich  from  the  interest  of  her 
connexions ;  but  a  change  of  ministry  had  thrown  her 
relations  out  of  power  ;  and,  Ixsyond  her  dowry,  he  ob- 
tained no  worldly  advantage  with  the  lady  of  his  merce- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNlNO.  87 

nary  choice.  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  a  woman  whom  a  word 
or  two  will  describe.  She  was  thoroughly  common- 
place ;  neither  bad  nor  good,  neither  clever  nor  silly. 
She  was  what  is  called  well-bred ;  that  is,  languid,  si- 
lent, perfectly  dressed,  and  insipid.  Of  her  two  children, 
Arthur  was  almost  the  exclusive  favourite,  especially  af- 
ter he  became  the  heir  to  such  brilliant  fortunes.  For 
she  was  so  much  the  mechanical  creature  of  the  world, 
that  even  her  affection  was  warm  or  cold  in  proportion 
as  the  world  shone  on  it.  Without  being  absolutely  in 
love  with  her  husband,  she  liked  him  :  they  suited  each 
other ;  and  (in  spite  of  all  the  temptations  that  had  be- 
set her  in  their  earlier  years — for  she  had  been  esteem- 
ed a  beauty,  and  lived,  as  worldly  people  must  do,  in 
circles  where  examples  of  unpunished  gallantry  are  nu- 
merous and  contagious)  her  conduct  had  ever  been  scru- 
pulously correct.  She  had  little  or  no  feeling  for  mis- 
fortunes with  which  she  had  never  come  into  contact ; 
for  those  with  which  she  had — such  as  the  distresses  of 
younger  sons,  or  the  errors  of  fashionable  women,  or  the 
disappointments  of  "  a  proper  ambition" — she  had  more 
sympathy  than  might  have  been  supposed,  and  touched 
on  them  with  all  the  tact  of  well-bred  charity  and  lady- 
like forbearance.  Thus,  though  she  was  regarded  as  a 
strict  person  in  point  of  moral  decorum,  yet  in  society 
she  was  popular — as  women  at  once  pretty  and  inoffen- 
sive generally  are. 

To  do  Mrs.  Beaufort  justice,  she  had  not  been  privy 
to  the  letter  her  husband  wrote  to  Catharine,  although 
not  wholly  innocent  of  it.  The  fact  is,  that  Robert  had 
never  mentioned  to  her  the  peculiar  circumstances  that 
made  Catharine  an  exception  from  ordinary  rules — the 
generous  propositions  of  his  brother  to  him  the  night 
before  his  death ;  and,  whatever  his  incredulity  as  to  the 
alleged  private  marriage — the  perfect  loyalty  and  faith 
that  Catharine  had  borne  to  the  deceased — he  had  mere- 
ly observed,  "  I  must  do  something,  I  suppose,  for  that 
woman :  she  very  nearly  entrapped  my  poor  brother 
into  marrying  her  ;  and  he  would  then,  for  what  I  know, 
have  cut  Arthur  out  of  the  estates.  Still,  I  must  do 
something  for  her — eh  V 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.     What  was  she — very  low  V 

"  A  tradesman's  daughter." 

"  The  children  should  be  provided  for  according  to  the 
rank  of  the  mother ;  that's  the  general  rule  in  such  cases : 


88  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

and  the  mother  should  have  about  the  same  provision 
she  might  have  looked  for  if  she  had  married  a  trades- 
man and  been  left  a  w^idow.  I  dare  say  she  was  a  very 
artful  kind  of  person,  and  don't  deserve  anything ;  but  it 
is  always  handsomer,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  to  go  by 
the  general  rules  people  lay  down  as  to  money  matters." 

So  spoke  Mrs.  Beaufort.  She  concluded  her  husband 
had  settled  the  matter,  and  never  again  recurred  to  it. 
Indeed,  she  had  never  Uked  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort,  whom 
she  considered  mauvais  ton. 

In  the  breakfast-room  at  Mr.  Beaufort's,  the  mother 
and  son  were  seated ;  the  former  at  work,  the  latter 
lounging  by  the  window  :  they  were  not  alone.  In  a 
large  elbow-chair  sat  a  middle-aged  man,  hstening,  or 
appearing  to  listen,  to  the  prattle  of  a  beautiful  httle 
girl — Arthur  Beaufdrt's  sister.  This  man  was  not  hand- 
some, but  there  was  a  certain  elegance  in  his  air,  and  a 
certain  intelligence  in  his  countenance  which  made  his 
appearance  pleasing.  He  had  that  kind  of  eye  which  is 
often  seen  with  red  hair — an  eye  of  a  reddish  hazel,  with 
very  long  lashes  ;  the  eyebrows  were  dark  and  clearly 
defined ;  and  the  short  hair  showed  to  advantage  the 
contour  of  a  small,  well-shaped  head.  His  features 
were  irregular;  the  complexion  had  been  sanguine,  but 
was  now  faded,  and  a  yellow  tinge  mingled  with  the  red. 
His  face  was  more  wrinkled,  especially  round  the  eyes 
— which,  when  he  laughed,  were  scarcely  visible — than 
is  usual  even  in  men  ten  years  older.  But  his  teeth 
were  still  of  a  dazzling  whiteness ;  nor  was  there  any 
trace  of  decayed  health  in  his  countenance,  rie  seem- 
ed one  who  had  lived  hard,  but  who  had  much  yet  left 
in  the  lamp  wherewith  to  feed  the  wick.  At  the  first 
glance  he  appeared  slight,  as  he  lolled  listlessly  in  his 
chair — almost  fragile.  But,  at  a  nearer  examination, 
you  perceived  that,  in  spite  of  the  small  extremities  and 
delicate  bones,  his  frame  was  constitutionally  strong. 
Without  being  broad  in  the  shoulders,  he  was  exceed- 
ingly deep  in  the  chest — deeper  than  men  who  seemed 
giants  by  his  side  ;  and  his  gestures  had  the  ease  of  one 
accustomed  to  an  active  life.  He  had,  indeed,  been  cel- 
ebrated in  his  youth  for  his  skill  in  athletic  exercises ; 
but  a  wound,  received  in  a  duel  many  years  ago,  had 
rendered  him  lame  for  life — a  misfortune  which  inter- 
fered with  his  former  habits,  and  was  said  to  have  sour- 
ed his  temper.     This  personage,  Virhosc  position  and 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  89 

character  will  be  described  hereafter,  was  Lord  Lilburne, 
the  brother  of  Mrs.  Beaufort. 

"  So,  Camilla,"  said  Lord  Lilburne  to  his  niece,  as 
carelessly,  not  fondly,  he  stroked  down  her  glossy  ring- 
lets, "  you  don't  like  Berkeley  Square  as  much  as  you 
did  Gloucester  Place  V 

"  Oh,  no !  not  half  as  much  !  You  see  I  never  walk 
out  in  the  fields,*  nor  make  daisy-chains  at  Primrose 
Hill.  I  don't  know  what  mamma  means,"  added  the 
child,  in  a  whisper,  "  in  saying  we  are  better  off  here." 

Lord  Lilburne  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  a  half  sneer. 

"  You  will  know  quite  soon  enough,  Camilla ;  the  un- 
derstandings of  young  ladies  grow  up  very  quickly  on 
this  side  of  Oxford-street.  Well,  Arthur,  and  what  are 
your  plans  to-day  V 

"  Why,"  said  Arthur,  suppressing  a  yawn,  "  I  have 
promised  to  ride  out  with  a  friend  of  mine  to  see  a  horse 
that  is  for  sale  somewhere  in  the  suburbs." 

As  he  spoke,  Arthur  rose,  stretched  himself,  looked  in 
the  glass,  and  then  glanced  impatiently  at  the  window. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time." 

"  He  I  who  V  said  Lord  Lilburne  ;  "  the  horse  or  the 
animal — I  mean,  the  friend  1" 

"  The  friend,"  answered  Arthur,  smiling,  but  colouring 
while  he  smiled,  for  he  half  suspected  the  quiet  sneer 
of  his  uncle. 

"Who  is  your  friend,  Arthur  1"  asked  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
looking  up  from  her  work. 

"  Watson,  an  Oxford  man.  By-the-by,  I  must  intro- 
duce him  to  you." 

"  Watson  !  What  Watson  ?  what  family  of  Watson  ? 
Some  VVatsons  are  good  and  some  are  bad,"  said  Mrs. 
Beaufort,  musingly. 

"  Then  they  are  very  unlike  the  rest  of  mankind,' 
observed  Lord  Lilburne,  dryly. 

"  Oh !  mi/  Watson  is  a  very  gentlemanlike  person,  I 
assure  you,"  said  Arthur,  half  laughing,  "and  you  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  him."  Then,  rather  desirous  of 
turning  the  conversation,  he  continued,  "  So  my  father 
will  be  back  from  Beaufort  Court  to-day  ]" 

"  Yes ;  he  writes  in  excellent  spirits.  He  says  the 
rents  will  bear  raising  at  least  ten  per  cent.,  and  that  the 
house  will  not  require  much  repair." 

*  Now  the  Regent's  Park. 
H2 


90  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

Here  Arthur  threw  open  the  window. 

"Ah,  Watson,  how  are  you?  How  d'ye  do,  Mars- 
den  1  Danvers  too !  that's  capital !  the  more  the  mer- 
rier !  I  will  be  down  in  an  instant.  But  would  you  not 
rather  come  in"?" 

"  An  agreeable  inundation,"  murmured  Lord  Lilburne. 
"  Three  at  a  time ;  he  takes  your  house  for  Trinity 
College." 

A  loud,  clear  voice^  however,  declined  the  invitation  j 
the  horses  were  heard  pawing  without.  Arthur  seized 
his  hat  and  whip,  and  glanced  to  his  mother  and  uncle 
smilingly  "  Good-by  !  I  shall  be  out  till  dinner.  Kiss 
me,  my  pretty  'Milly !"  And  as  his  sister,  who  had  run 
to  the  window,  sickening  for  the  fresh  air  and  exercise 
he  was  about  to  enjoy,  now  turned  to  him  wistful  and 
mournful  eyes,  the  kind-hearted  young  man  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  whispered  while  he  kissed  her, 

"  Get  up  early  to-morrow,  and  we'll  have  such  a  nice 
Vvalk  together." 

Arthur  was  gone  ;  his  mother's  gaze  had  followed  his 
young  and  graceful  figure  to  the  door. 

"  Own  that  he  is  handsome,  Lilburne.  May  I  not  say 
more — has  he  not  the  proper  airV 

"  My  dear  sister,  your  son  will  be  rich.  As  for  his 
air,  he  has  plenty  of  airs,  but  wants  graces." 

"Then  who  could  polish  him  like  yourself?" 

"  Probably  no  one.  But  had  I  a  son — which  Heaven 
forbid ! — he  should  not  have  me  for  his  Mentor.  Place 
a  young  man  (go  and  shut  the  door,  Camilla!)  between 
two  vices — women  and  gambhng — if  you  want  to  polish 
him  into  the  fashionable  smoothness.  Between  you  and 
me,  the  varnish  is  a  little  expensive  !" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  sighed.  Lord  Lilburne  smiled.  He 
had  a  strange  pleasure  in  hurting  the  feelings  of  others. 
Besides,  he  dishked  youth  :  in  his  own  youth  he  had 
enjoyed  so  much  that  he  grew  sour  when  he  saw  the 
young. 

Meanwhile,  Arthur  Beaufort  and  his  friends,  careless 
of  the  warmth  of  the  day,  were  laughing  merrily  and 
talking  gayly  as  they  made  for  the  suburb  of  H . 

"  It  i>s  an  out-of-the-way  place  for  a  horse,  too,"  said 
Sir  Harry  Danvers. 

"  But  1  assure  you,"  insisted  Mr.  Watson,  earnestly, 
*'  that  my  groom,  who  is  a  capital  judge,  says  it  is  the 
tlever65t  hack  he  ev^i-  mounted.    It  has  won  several 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING-  91 

trotting  matches.  It  belonged  to  a  sporting  tradesman, 
tiow  done  up.     The  advertisement  caught  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Arthur,  gayly,  "  at  all  events,  the  ride  is 
delightful.  What  weather!  You  must  all  dine  with 
me  at  Richmond  to-morrow — we  will  row  back." 

"And   a  little  chicken  hazard    at  the  M after- 

^vard,"  said  Mr.  Marsden,  who  was  an  elder,  not  a  bet- 
ter man  than  the  rest — a  handsome,  saturnine  man — who 
had  just  left  Oxford,  and  was  already  known  on  the  turf. 

"  Anything  you  please,"  said  Arthur,  making  his  horse 
curvet. 

Oh,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort !  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort !  could 
your  prudent,  scheming,  worldly  heart  but  feel  what  dev- 
il's tricks  your  wealth  was  playing  with  a  son  who,  if 
poor,  had  been  the  pride  of  the  Beauforts  !  On  one  side 
of  our  pieces  of  gold  we  see  the  saint  trampling  down 
the  dragon — false  emblem!  Reverse  it  on  the  coin! 
In  the  real  use  of  the  gold,  it  is  the  dragon  who  tramples 
down  the  saint !  But  on — on !  the  day  is  bright,  and 
your  companions  merry ;  make  the  best  of  your  green 
years,  Arthur  Beaufort ! 

The  young  men  had  just  entered  the  suburb  of  H , 

and  were  spurring  on,  four  abreast,  at  a  canter.  At  that 
time  an  old  man,  feeling  his  way  before  him  with  a  stick 
— for,  though  not  quite  blind,  he  saw  imperfectly — was 
crossing  the  road.  Arthur  and  his  friends,  in  loud  con- 
verse, did  not  observe  the  poor  passenger.  He  stopped 
abruptly,  for  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  danger :  it  was 
too  late  :  Mr.  Marsden's  horse,  hard-mouthed  and  high- 
stepping,  came  full  against  him.  Mr.  Marsden  looked 
down : 

"  Hang  these  old  men !  ahoays  in  the  way,"  said  he, 
plaintively,  and  in  the  tone  of  a  much-injured  person ; 
and,  with  that,  Mr.  Marsden  rode  on.  But  the  others,  who 
were  younger — who  were  not  gamblers — who  were  not 
yet  grinded  down  into  stone  by  the  world's  wheels — the 
others  halted.  Arthur  Beaufort  leaped  from  his  horse, 
and  the  old  man  was  already  in  his  arms  ;  but  he  was 
severely  hurt.  The  blood  trickled  from  his  forehead ; 
he  complained  of  pain  in  his  side  and  linibs. 

"  Lean  on  me,  my  poor  fellow  !  I  will  take  you  home. 
Do  you  live  far  off?" 

"  Not  many  yards.  This  would  not  have  happened  if 
1  had  had  my  dog.  Never  mind,  sir,  go  your  way.  It 
is  only  an  old  man — what  of  that  ]    I  wish  1  had  my 

d02." 


92  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  I  will  join  you,",  said  Arthur  to  his  friends ;  "  my 
groom  has  the  direction.  I  will  just  take  the  poor  old 
man  home,  and  send  for  a  surgeon.     I  shall  not  be  long." 

"  So  hke  you,  Beaufort !  the  best  fellow  in  the  world !" 
said  Mr.  Watson,  with  some  emotion.  "And  there's 
Marsden  positively  dismounted  and  looking  at  his  horse's 
knees  as  if  they  could  be  hurt  I  Here's  a  sovereign  for 
you,  my  man." 

"  And  here's  another,"  said  Sir  Harry ;  "  so  that's  set- 
tled. Well,  you  will  join  us,  Beaufort  T  You  see  the 
yard  yonder.  We'll  wait  twenty  minutes  for  you. 
Come  on,  Watson." 

The  old  man  had  not  picked  up  the  sovereigns  thrown 
at  his  feet,  neither  had  he  thanked  the  donors.  And  on 
his  countenance  there  was  a  sour,  querulous,  resentful 
expression. 

"  Must  a  man  be  a  beggar  because  he  is  run  over  or 
because  he  is  half  blind"!"  said  he,  turning  his  dim,  wan- 
dering eyes  painfully  towards  Arthur.  "  Well,  I  wish  I 
had  my  dog !" 

"I  will  supply  his  place,"  said  Arthur,  soothingly. 
"  Come,  lean  on  me — heavier— that's  right.  You  are 
not  so  bad,  eh?" 

"  Um  !  the  sovereigns !  it  is  wicked  to  leave  them  in 
the  kennel !" 

Arthur  smiled.     "  Here  they  are,  sir." 

The  old  man  slid  the  coins  into  his  pocket,  and  Ar- 
thur continued  to  talk,  though  he  got  but  short  answers, 
and  those  only  in  the  way  of  direction,  till  at  last  the 
old  man  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  small  house  near  the 
churchyard. 

After  twice  ringing  the  bell,  the  door  was  opened  by 
a  middle-aged  woman,  whose  appearance  was  above  that 
of  a  common  menial ;  dressed,  somewhat  gayly  for  her 
years,  in  a  cap  seated  very  far  back  on  a  black  toupee, 
and  decorated  with  red  ribands,  an  apron  made  out  of  an 
Indian  silk  handkerchief,  a  puce-coloured  sarcenet  gown, 
black  silk-stockings,  long  gilt  earrings,  and  a  watch  at 
her  girdle. 

"Bless  us  and  save  us,  sir!  what  has  happened  1" 
exclaimed  this  worthy  personage,  holding  up  her  hands. 

"  Pish  I  1  am  faint :  let  me  in.  1  don't  want  your  aid 
any  more,  sir.     Thank  you.     Good-day!" 

Not  discouraged  by  this  farewell,  the  churlish  tone  of 
which  fell  harinless  on  the  invincibly  sweet  temper  of 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  93 

Arthur,  the  young  man  continued  to  assist  the  sufferer 
along  the  narrow  passage  into  a  little  oldfashioned  par- 
lour; and  no  sooner  was  the  owner  deposited  on  his 
worm-eaten  leather  chair  than  he  fainted  away.  On 
reaching  the  house,  Arthur  had  sent  his  servant  (who 
had  followed  him  with  the  horses)  for  the  nearest  sur- 
geon ;  and  while  the  old  lady  was  still  employed,  after 
taking  off  the  sufferer's  cravat,  in  burning  feathers  under 
his  nose,  there  was  heard  a  sharp  rap  and  a  shrill  ring. 
Arthur  opened  the  door,  and  admitted  a  smart  little  man 
in  nankeen  breeches  and  gaiters.  He  bustled  into  the 
room. 

"  What's  this — bad  accident — rode  over?  Sad  thing — 
very  sad.  Open  the  window.  A  glass  of  water — a 
towel.  So— so  :  I  see — I  see  :  no  fracture— contusion. 
Help  him  off  with  his  coat.  Another  chair,  ma'am  ;  put 
up  his  poor  legs.  What^age  is  he,  ma'am?  Sixty- 
eight!  Too  old  to  bleed.  Thank  you.  How  is  it,  sir? 
Poorly,  to  be  sure :  will  be  comfortable  presently — 
faintish  still  ?     Soon  put  all  to  rights." 

"Tray!  Tray!  Where's  Tray?  Where's  my  dog, 
Mrs.  Boxer?" 

"  Lord,  sir !  what  do  you  want  with  your  dog  now  ? 
He  is  in  the  back  yard." 

"And  what  business  has  my  dog  in  the  back  yard?" 
almost  screamed  the  sufferer,  in  accents  that  denoted  no 
diminution  of  vigour.  "  1  thought,  as  soon  as  my  back 
was  turned,  my  dog  would  be  ill  used !  Why  did  I  go 
without  my  dog?    Let  in  my  dog  directly,  Mrs.  Boxer!" 

"  All  right,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the  apothecary,  turning 
to  Beaufort ;  "  no  cause  for  alarm — very  comforting,  that 
little  passion — does  him  good — sets  one's  mind  easy. 
How  did  it  happen  ?  Ah,  I  understand  !  knocked  down 
— might  have  been  worse.  Your  groom  (sharp  fellow!) 
explained  in  a  trice,  sir.  Thought  it  was  my  old  friend 
here  by  the  description.  Worthy  man — settled  here  a 
many  year — very  odd — eccentric  (this  in  a  whisper). 
Came  off  instantly — just  at  diimer — cold  lamb  and  salad. 
'  Mrs.  Perkins,'  says  I,  '  if  any  one  calls  for  me,  I  shall 
be  at  No.  4  Prospect  Place.'  Your  servant  observed 
the  address,  sir.  Oh,  very  sharp  fellow !  See  how  the 
old  gentleman  takes  to  his  dog — fine  little  dog — what  a 
stump  of  a  tail  I  Deal  of  practice — expect  too  accouche- 
raents  every  hour.  Hot  weather  for  childbirth.  So 
says  I  to  Mrs.  Perkins,  '  If  Mrs.  Plummer  is  taken,  or 


94  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Mrs.  Everat,  or  if  old  Mr.  Grub  has  another  fit,  send  oflf 
at  once  to  No.  4.'  Medical  men  should  be  always  in 
the  way — that's  my  maxim.  Now,  sir,  where  do  you 
feel  the  painT" 

"  In  my  ears,  sir." 

"  Bless  me,  that  looks  bad.  How  long  have  you 
felt  it  ?" 

"  Ever  since  you  have  been  in  the  room." 

"  Oh,  I  take.  Ha  !  ha !  very  eccentric — very !"  mut- 
tered the  apothecary,  a  little  disconcerted.  "  Well,  let 
him  lie  down,  ma'am.  I'll  send  him  a  little  quieting 
draught  to  be  taken  directly — pill  at  night,  aperient  in 
the  morning.  If  wanted,  send  for  me — always  to  be 
found.  Bless  me,  that's  my  boy  Bob's  ring  !  Please  to 
open  the  door,  ma'am.  Know  his  ring — very  peculiar 
knack  of  his  own.  Lay  ten  to  one  it  is  Mrs.  Plummer, 
or  perhaps  Mrs.  Everat — he^  ninth  child  in  eight  years 
— in  the  grocery  line.     A  woman  in  a  thousand,  sir!" 

Here  a  thin  boy,  with  very  short  coat-sleeves  and  very 
large  hands,  burst  into  the  room  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  Sir — Mr.  Perkins — sir !" 

"  I  know — I  know — coming.  Mrs.  Plummer  or  Mrs. 
Everat  V 

"  No,  sir,  it  be  the  poor  lady  at  Mrs.  Lacy's  ;  she  be 
taken  desperate.  Mrs.  Lacy's  girl  has  just  been  over 
to  the  shop,  and  made  me  run  here  to  you,  sir." 

"  Mrs.  Lacy's !  Oh,  I  know.  Poor  Mrs.  Morton !  Bad 
case — very  bad — must  be  off.  Keep  him  quiet,  ma'am. 
Good-day!  Look  in  to-morrow — nine  o'clock.  Put  a 
little  lint  with  the  lotion  on  the  head,  ma'am.  Mrs. 
Morton  !     Ah !  bad  job  that." 

Here  the  apothecary  had  shuffled  himself  off  to  the 
street  door,  when  Arthur  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Mrs.  Morton !  Did  you  say  Morton,  sir  ]  What 
kind  of  a  person — is  she  very  ill  V 

"  Hopeless  case,  sir — general  break-up.  Nice  woman 
— quite  the  lady — known  better  days,  I'm  sure." 

"  Has  she  any  children — sons  V 

"  Two — both  away  now — fine  lads — quite  wrapped  up 
in  them — youngest  especially." 

"  Good  Heavens !  it  must  be  she — ill,  and  dying,  and 
destitute,  perhaps,"  exclaimed  Arthur,  with  real  and 
deep  feeling ;  "  I  will  go  with  you,  sir.  I  fancy  that  I 
know  this  lady — that  (he  added,  generously)  I  am  related 
to  her." 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  95 

"  Do  you  T  Glad  to  hear  it.  Come  along,  then ;  she 
ought  to  have  some  one  near  her  besides  servants  :  not 
but  what  Jenny,  the  maid,  is  uncommonly  kind.     Dr. 

,  who  attends  her  sometimes,  said  to  me,  says  he, 

'  It  is  the  mind,  Mr.  Perkins  ;  I  wish  we  could  get  back 
her  boys.'" 

"  And  where  are  they  V 

"  'Prenticed  out,  I  fancy.    Master  Sidney — " 

"  Sidney !" 

"  Ah  !  that  was  his  name — pretty  name.  D'ye  know 
Sir  Sidney  Smith  ? — extraordinary  man,  sir  !  Master 
Sidney  was  a  beautiful  child — quite  spoiled.  She  always 
fancied  him  ailing — always  sending  for  me.  '  Mr.  Per- 
kins,' said  she,  '  there's  something  the  matter  with  my 
child  ;  I'm  sure  there  is,  though  he  won't  own  it.  He 
has  lost  his  appetite — had  a  headache  last  night.'  '  No- 
thing the  matter,  ma'am,'  says  I ;  '  wish  you'd  think  more 
of  yourself.'  These  mothers  are  silly,  anxious,  poor 
creatures.  Nater,  sir,  nater — wonderful  thing — nater! 
Here  we  are." 

And  the  apothecary  knocked  at  the  private  door  of  a 
milliner  and  hosier's  shop. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Thy  child  shall  live,  and  I  will  see  it  nourished." 

Titus  Andronicus. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of 
Catharine's  journey  to  N had  considerably  acceler- 
ated the  progress  of  disease.  And  when  she  reached 
home,  and  looked  round  the  cheerless  rooms,  all  solita- 
ry, all  hushed — Sidney  gone,  gone  from  her  for  ever — 
she  felt,  indeed,  as  if  the  last  reed  on  which  she  had 
leaned  was  broken,  and  her  business  upon  earth  was 
done.  Catharine  was  not  condemned  to  absolute  pov- 
erty :  the  poverty  which  grinds  and  gnaws,  the  poverty 
of  rags  and  famine.  She  had  still  left  nearly  half  of 
such  portion  of  the  little  capital,  realized  by  the  sale  of 
her  trinkets,  as  had  escaped  the  clutch  of  the  law  ;  and 
her  brother  had  forced  into  her  hands  a  note  for  jC20, 
with  an  assurance  that  the  same  sum  should  be  paid  to 
her  half  yearly.    Alas  !  there  was  little  chance  of  her 


96  NIGHT  AND   MORNINfi 

needing  it  again !  She  was  not,  then,  in  want  of  means 
to  procure  the  common  comforts  of  hfe.  But  now  a 
new  passion  had  entered  into  her  breast — the  passion  of 
the  miser ;  she  wished  to  hoard  every  sixpence  as  some 
little  provision  for  her  children.  What  was  the  use  of 
her  feeding  a  lamp  nearly  extinguished,  and  which  was 
fated  to  be  soon  broken  up,  and  cast  amid  the  vast  lum- 
ber-house of  death  !  She  would  willingly  have  removed 
into  a  more  homely  lodging,  but  the  servant  of  the 
house  had  been  so  fond  of  Sidney,  so  kind  to  him.  She 
clung  to  one  familiar  face  on  which  there  seemed  to  live 
the  reflection  of  her  child's.  But  she  relinquished  the 
first  floor  for  the  second ;  and  there,  day  by  day,  she 
felt  her  eyes  grow  heavier  and  heavier  beneath  the 
clouds  of  the  last  sleep.  Besides  the  aid  of  Mr.  Perkins, 
a  kind  enough  man  in  his  way,  the  good  physician 
whom  she  had  before  consulted  still  attended  her,  and — 
refused  his  fee.  Shocked  at  perceiving  that  she  reject- 
ed every  little  alleviation  of  her  condition,  and  wishing, 
at  least,  to  procure  for  her  last  hours  the  society  of  one 
of  her  sons,  he  had  inquired  the  address  of  the  elder ; 
and  on  the  day  preceding  the  one  in  which  Arthur  dis- 
covered her  abode,  he  despatched  to  Philip  the  follow- 
ing letter : 

"  Sir, — Being  called  in  to  attend  your  mother  in  a  lin- 
gering illness,  which  I  fear  may  prove  fatal,  I  think  it 
my  duty  to  request  you  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  you 
receive  this.  Your  presence  cannot  but  be  a  great  com- 
fort to  her.  The  nature  of  her  illness  is  such  that  it  is 
impossible  to  calculate  exactly  how  long  she  may  be 
spared  to  you  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  her  fate  might  be  pro- 
longed, and  her  remaining  days  more  happy,  if  she  could 
be  induced  to  remove  into  a  better  air  and  a  more  quiet 
neighbourhood,  to  take  more  generous  sustenance,  and, 
above  all,  if  her  mind  could  be  set  more  at  ease  as  to 
your  and  your  brother's  prospects.  You  must  pardon 
me  if  I  have  seemed  inquisitive ;  but  I  have  sought  to 
draw  from  your  mother  some  particulars  as  to  her  fam- 
ily and  connexions,  with  a  wish  to  represent  to  them 
her  state  of  mind.  She  is,  however,  very  reserved  on 
these  points.  If,  however,  you  have  relations  well  to 
do  in  the  world,  1  think  some  application  to  them  should 
be  made.  I  fear  the  state  of  her  affairs  weighs  much 
upon  your  poor  motlaer's  mind  ;  and  I  must  leave  you  to 


NIGHT   AND   MfRNING.  97 

judge  how  far  it  can  be  relieved  by  the  good  feeling  of 
any  persons  upon  whom  she  may  have  legitimate  claims. 
At  all  events,  I  repeat  my  wish  that  you  should  come  to 
her  forthwith.    I  am,  &c., 


X,  After  he  had  despatched  this  letter,  a  sudden  and 
marked  alteration  for  the  worse  took  place  in  his  pa- 
tient's disorder  ;  and  in  the  visit  he  had  paid  that  morn- 
ing, he  saw  cause  to  fear  that  her  hours  on  earth  would 
be  much  fewer  than  he  had  before  anticipated.  He  had 
left  her,  however,  comparatively  better  ;  but,  two  hours 
after  his  departure,  the  symptoms  of  her  disease  had  be- 
come very  alarming,  and  the  good-natured  servant  girl, 
her  sole  nurse,  and  who  had,  moreover,  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  the  other  lodgers  to  attend  to,  had,  as  we  have 
seen,  thought  it  necessary  to  summon  the  apothecary  in 
the  interval  that  must  elapse  before  she  could  reach  the 
distant  part  of  the  metropolis  in  which  Dr. resided. 

On  entering  the  chamber,  Arthur  felt  all  the  remorse, 
which  of  right  belonged  to  his  father,  press  heavily  on 
his  soul.  What  a  contrast,  that  mean  and  solitary 
chamber,  and  its  comfortless  appurtenances,  to  the  grace- 
ful and  luxurious  abode,  where,  full  of  health  and  hope, 
he  had  last  beheld  her,  the  mother  of  Philip  Beaufort's 
children  !  He  remained  silent  till  Mr.  Perkins,  after  a 
few  questions,  retired  to  send  his  drugs.  He  then  ap- 
proached the  bed ;  Catharine,  though  very  weak  and 
suffering  much  pain,  was  still  sensible.  She  turned  her 
dim  eyes  on  the  young  man,  but  she  did  not  recognise 
his  features. 

"  You  do  not  remember  me  1"  said  he,  in  a  voice 
struggling  with  tears :  "  I  am  Arthur — Arthur  Beau- 
fort." 

Catharine  made  no  answer. 

"  Good  God !  why  do  I  see  you  here  1  I  believed  you 
with  your  friends — your  children ;  provided  for,  as  be- 
came my  father  to  do.  He  assured  me  that  you  were 
so." 

Still  no  answer. 

And  then  the  young  man,  overpowered  with  the  feel- 
ings of  a  sympathizing  and  generous  nature,  forgettmg 
for  a  while  Catharine's  weakness,  poured  forth  a  torrent 
of  inquiries,  regrets,  and  self-upbraidings,  which  Catha- 
rine at  first  httle  heeded.    But  the  name  of  her  children, 

Vol.  I.— I 


98  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

repeated  again  and  again,  struck  upon  that  chord  which, 
in  a  woman's  heart,  is  the  last  to  break ;  and  she  raised 
herself  in  her  bed,  and  looked  at  her  visiter  wistfully. 

"  Your  father,"  she  said,  then,  "  your  father  was  un- 
like my  Philip  :  but  I  see  things  differently  now.  For 
me,  all  bounty  is  too  late  ;  but  my  children — to-morrow 
they  may  have  no  mother.  The  law  is  with  you,  hut 
not  justice  !  You  will  be  rich  and  powerful — will  you 
befriend  my  children  f 

"  Through  life,  so  help  me  Heaven !"  exclaimed  Ar- 
thur, falling  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

What  then  passed  between  them  it  is  needless  to  de- 
tail ;  for  it  was  little,  save  broken  repetitions  of  the  same 
prayer  and  the  same  response.  But  there  was  so  much 
truth  and  earnestness  in  Arthur's  voice  and  countenance, 
that  Catharine  felt  as  if  an  angel  had  come  there  to  ad- 
minister comfort.  And  when,  late  in  the  day,  the  physi- 
cian entered,  he  found  his  patient  leaning  on  the  breast 
of  her  young  visiter,  and  looking  on  his  face  with  a  hap- 
py smile. 

The  physician  gathered  enough  from  the  appearance 
of  Arthur  and  the  gossip  of  Mr.  Perkins  to  conjecture 
that  one  of  the  rich  relations  he  had  attributed  to  Cath- 
arine was  arrived.     Alas  for  her,  it  was  now  too  late  ! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  D'ye  stand  amazed  ?    Look  o'er  thy  head,  Maximinian  . 
Look  to  the  terror  which  overhangs  thee." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher;   The  Prophetess. 

Philip  had  been  five  weeks  in  his  new  home  :  in  an- 
other week  he  was  to  enter  on  his  articles  of  appren- 
ticeship. With  a  stern,  unbending  gloom  of  manner,  he 
had  entered  on  the  duties  of  his  novitiate.  He  submit- 
ted to  all  that  was  enjoined  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
lost  for  ever  the  wild  and  unruly  waywardness  that  had 
stamped  his  boyhood  ;  but  lie  was  never  seen  to  smile — 
he  scarcely  ever  opened  his  lips.  His  very  soul  seemed 
to  have  quitted  him  with  its  faults  ;  and  he  periormed 
all  the  functions  of  his  situation  with  the  quiet,  listless 
regularity  of  a  machine      Only  when  the  work  was 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  99 

done  and  the  shop  closed,  instedd  of  joining  the  family 
cifcle  in  the  back  parlour,  he  would  stroll  out  in  the 
dusk  of  evening,  away  from  the  town,  and  not  return 
till  the  hour  at  which  the  family  retired  to  rest.  Punc- 
tual in  all  he  did,  he  never  exceeded  that  hour.  He  had 
heard  once  a  week  from  his  mother ;  and  only  on  the 
mornings  in  which  he  expected  a  letter  did  he  seem 
restless  and  agitated.  Till  the  postman  entered  the 
shop  he  was  pale  as  death ;  his  hands  trembling,  his 
lips  compressed.  When  he  read  the  letter  he  became 
composed  ;  for  Catharine  sedulously  concealed  from  her 
son  the  state  of  her  health ;  she  wrote  cheerfully,  be- 
sought him  to  content  himself  with  the  state  into  which 
he  had  fallen,  and  expressed  her  joy  that  in  his  letters 
he  intimated  that  content :  for  the  poor  boy's  letters 
Were  not  less  considerate  than  her  own.  On  her  return 
from  her  brother,  she  had  so  far  silenced  or  concealed 
her  misgivings  as  to  express  satisfaction  at  the  home 
she  had  provided  for  Sidney  ;  and  she  even  held  out 
hopes  of  some  future,  when,  their  probation  finished  and 
their  independence  secured,  she  might  reside  with  her 
sons  alternately.  These  hopes  redoubled  Philip's  assi- 
duity, and  he  saved  every  shilling  of  his  weekly  sti- 
pend ;  and  sighed  as  he  thought  that,  in  another  week, 
his  term  of  apprenticeship  would  commence,  and  the 
stipend  cease. 

Mr.  Plakswith  could  not  but  be  pleased,  on  the  whole, 
with  the  diligence  of  his  assistant,  but  he  was  chafed 
and  irritated  by  the  sullenness  of  his  manner.  As  for 
Mrs.  Plakswith,  poor  woman !  she  positively  detested 
the  taciturn  and  moody  boy,  who  never  mixed  in  the 
jr)kes  of  the  circle,  nor  played  with  the  children,  nor 
complimented  her,  nor  added,  in  short,  anything  to  the 
sociabiHty  of  the  house.  Mr.  Plimmins,  who  had  at 
first  sought  to  condescend,  next  sought  to  bully ;  but 
the  gaunt  frame  and  savage  eye  of  Phihp  awed  the 
smirk  youth  in  spite  of  himself;  and  he  confessed  to 
Mrs.  Plakswith  that  he  should  not  like  to  meet  "  the 
gipsy"  alone  on  a  dark  night ;  to  which  Mrs.  Plaskwith 
replied,  as  usual,  "  that  Mr.  Plimmins  always  did  say 
the  best  things  in  the  world  !" 

One  morning  Philip  was  sent  some  miles  into  the 
country,  to  assist  in  cataloguing  some  books  in  the  li- 
brary of  Sir  Thomas  Champerdown  ;  that  gentleman, 
who  was  a  scholar,  having  requested  that  some  one  ac- 


100  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

quainted  with  the  Grees  character  might  be  sent  to  him, 
and  Phihp  being  the  only  one  in  the  shop  who  possessed 
such  knowledge. 

It  was  evening  before  he  returned.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Plaskwith  were  both  in  the  shop  as  he  entered  ;  in  fact, 
they  had  been  employed  in  talking  him  over. 

"  I  can't  abide  him !"  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith.  "  If  you 
choose  to  take  him  for  good,  I  sha'n't  have  an  easy  mo- 
ment. I'm  sure  the  'prentice  that  cut  his  master's  throat 
at  Chatham  last  week  was  just  like  him" 

"  Pshaw,  Mrs.  P.  I"  said  the  bookseller,  taking  a  huge 
pinch  of  snuff,  as  usual,  from  his  waistcoat  pocket.  "  I 
myself  was  reserved  when  I  was  young — all  reflective 
people  are.  I  may  observe,  by-the-by,  that  it  was  the 
case  with  Napoleon  Bonaparte :  still,  however,  I  must 
own  he  is  a  disagreeable  youth,  though  he  attends  to 
his  business." 

"  And  how  fond  of  his  money  he  is !"  remarked  Mrs. 
Plaskwith  ;  "  he  won't  buy  himself  a  new  pair  of  shoes ! 
quite  disgraceful !  And  did  you  see  what  a  look  he  gave 
Plimmins,  when  he  joked  about  his  indiflference  to  his 
sole  ?    Plimmins  always  does  say  such  good  things  !" 

"  He  is  shabby,  certainly,"  said  the  bookseller ;  "  but 
the  value  of  a  book  does  not  always  depend  on  the  bind- 
ing." 

"  I  hope  he  is  honest !"  observed  Mrs.  Plaskwith ;  and 
here  Phihp  entered. 

"  Hum  !"  said  Mr.  Plaskwith,  "  you  have  had  a  long 
day's  work  ;  but  I  suppose  it  will  take  a  week  to  finish  1" 

"  I  am  to  go  again  to-morrow  morning,  sir  :  two  days 
more  will  conclude  the  task." 

"  There's  a  letter  for  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith ; 
"you  owes  me  for  it." 

"A  letter!"  It  was  not  his  mother's  hand — it  was  a 
strange  writing;  he  gasped  for  breath  as  he  broke  the 
seal.     It  was  the  letter  of  the  physician. 

His  mother,  then,  was  ill — dying — wanting,  perhaps, 
the  necessaries  of  life.  She  would  have  concealed  from 
him  her  illness  and  her  poverty.  His  quick  alarm  ex- 
aggerated the  last  into  utter  want  ;  he  uttered  a  cry  that 
rang  through  the  shop,  and  rushed  to  Mr.  Plaskwith. 

"  Sir,  sir !  my  mother  is  dying !  She  is  poor,  poor — 
perhaps  starving ;  money,  money  ! — lend  me  money  ! — 
ten  pounds ! — five  !  I  will  work  for  you  all  my  life  for 
nothing,  but  lend  me  the  money  !" 

"  Hoity-toity!"  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  nudging  her  bus- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  101 

band ;  "  I  told  you  what  would  come  of  it ;  it  will  be 
'  money  or  life'  next  time." 

Philip  did  not  heed  or  hear  this  address,  but  stood  im- 
mediately before  the  bookseller,  his  hands  clasped,  wild 
impatience  in  his  eyes.  Mr.  Plaskwith,  somewhat  stu- 
pified,  remained  silent. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Are  you  human  1"  exclaimed  Phil- 
ip, his  emotion  revealing  at  once  all  the  fire  of  his  char- 
acter. "I  tell  you  my  mother  is  dying;  I  must  go  to 
her!     Shall  I  go  empty-handed^     Give  me  money  !" 

Mr.  Plaskwith  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man  ;  but  he  was 
a  formal  man,  and  an  irritable  one.  The  tone  his  shop- 
boy  (for  so  he  considered  Phihp)  assumed  to  him,  be- 
fore his  own  wife,  too  (examples  are  very  dangerous), 
rather  exasperated  than  moved  him. 

"  That's  not  the  way  to  speak  to  your  master !  You 
forget  yourself,  young  man  !" 

"  Forget !  But,  sir,  if  she  has  not  necessaries — if  she 
is  starving  V 

"  Fudge  !"  said  Mr.  Plaskwith.  "  Mr.  Morton  writes 
me  word  that  he  has  provided  for  your  mother !  Does 
not  he,  Hannah  V 

"More  fool  he,  I'm  sure,  with  such  a  fine  family  of 
his  own!  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way,  young  man  ;  I 
won't  take  it— that  I  won't !  I  declare  my  blood  friz  to 
see  you !" 

"  Will  you  advance  me  money  1  Five  pounds — only 
five  pounds,  Mr.  Plaskwith  1" 

"  Not  five  shillings  !  Talk  to  me  in  this  style  ! — not 
the  man  for  it,  sir ! — highly  improper.  Come,  shut  up 
the  shop,  and  recollect  yourself ;  and  perhaps,  when  Sir 
Thomas's  library  is  done,  I  may  let  you  go  to  town. 
You  can't  go  to-morrow.  All  a  sham,  perhaps — eh, 
Hannah  ?" 

"  Ver)' likely !  Consult  Plimmins.  Better  come  away 
now,  Mr.  P.     He  looks  like  a  young  tiger." 

Mrs.  Plaskwith  quitted  the  shop  for  the  parlour.  Her 
husband,  putting  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  throw- 
ing back  his  chin,  was  about  to  follow  her.  Philip,  who 
had  remained  for  the  last  moment  mute  and  white  as 
stone,  turned  abniptly  ;  and  his  grief  taking  rather  the 
tone  of  rage  than  supplication,  he  threw  himself  before 
his  master,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said, 

"  I  leave  you — do  not  let  it  be  with  a  curse.    I  con- 
jure you,  have  mercy  on  me  !" 
12 


102  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Mr.  Plaskwith  stopped ;  and,  had  Philip  then  taken 
but  a  milder  tone,  all  had  been  well.  But,  accustomed 
from  childhood  to  command — all  his  fierce  passions  loose 
within  him — despising  the  very  man  he  thus  implored, 
the  boy  ruined  his  own  cause.  Indignant  at  the  silence 
of  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and  too  blinded  by  his  emotions  to  see 
that  in  that  silence  there  was  relenting,  he  suddenly 
shook  the  little  man  with  a  vehemence  that  almost  over- 
set him,  and  cried, 

"  You,  who  demand  for  five  years  my  bones  and  blood 
— my  body  and  soul — a  slave  to  your  vile  trade — do  you 
deny  me  bread  for  a  mother's  lips  T" 

Trembling  with  anger,  and  perhaps  fear,  Mr.  Plask- 
with extricated  himself  from  the  gripe  of  Philip,  and, 
hurrying  from  the  shop,  said,  as  he  banged  the  door, 

"  Beg  my  pardon  for  this  to-night,  or  out  you  go  to- 
morrow, neck  and  crop !  Zounds !  a  pretty  pass  the 
world's  come  to !  I  don't  believe  a  word  about  your 
mother.     Baugh !" 

Left  alone,  Philip  remained  for  some  moments  strug- 
gling with  his  wrath  and  agony.  He  then  seized  his  hat, 
which  he  had  thrown  off  on  entering,  pressed  it  over  his 
brows,  and  turned  to  quit  the  shop,  when  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  till.  Plaskwith  had  left  it  open,  and  the  gleam 
of  the  coin  struck  his  gaze — that  deadly  smile  of  the 
arch  tempter.  Intellect,  reason,  conscience — all,  in  that 
instant,  were  confusion  and  chaos.  He  cast  a  hurried 
glance  round  the  solitary  and  darkening  room  ;  plunged 
his  hand  into  the  drawer ;  clutched — he  knew  not  what 
— silver  or  gold,  as  it  came  uppermost,  and  burst  into  a 
loud  and  bitter  laugh.  That  laugh  itself  startled  him ; 
it  did  not  sound  like  his  own.  His  cheek  turned  white, 
and  his  knees  knocked  together ;  his  hair  bristled ;  he 
felt  as  if  the  very  fiend  had  uttered  that  yell  of  joy  over 
a  fallen  soul. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  he  muttered ;  "  no,  my  mother,  not 
even  for  thee  !"  And,  dashing  the  money  to  the  ground, 
he  fled  like  a  maniac  from  the  house. 

At  a  later  hour  that  same  evening,  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort returned  from  his  country  mansion  to  Berkeley 
Square.  He  found  his  wife  very  uneasy  and  nervous 
about  the  non-appearance  of  tlicir  only  son.  He  had 
sent  liomc  his  groom  and  horses  about  seven  o'clock, 
with  a  hurried  scroll,  written  in  pencil  on  a  blank  page 
torn  from  his  pock  ^it-byok,  and  containing  only  these 
words: 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  103 

"  Don't  wait  dinner  for  me — I  may  not  be  home  for 
some  hours.  1  have  met  with  a  melancholy  adventure. 
You  will  approve  what  I  have  done  when  we  meet." 

This  note  a  httle 'perplexed  Mr.  Beaufort;  but,  as  he 
was  very  hungry,  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  both  to  his  wife's 
conjectures  and  his  own  surmises  till  he  had  refreshed 
himself;  and  then  he  sent  for  the  groom,  and  learned 
that,  after  the  accident  to  the  blind  man,  Mr.  Arthur  had 
been  left  at  a  hosier's  in  H .  This  seemed  to  him  ex- 
tremely mysterious ;  and,  as  hour  after  hour  passed  away, 
and  still  Arthur  came  not,  he  began  to  imbibe  his  wife's 
fears,  which  were  now  wound  up  almost  to  hysterics  ; 
and,  just  at  midnight,  he  ordered  his  carriage,  and,  taking 
with  him  the  groom  as  a  guide,  set  off  to  the  suburban 
region.  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  wished  to  accompany  him ; 
but  the  husband  observing  that  young  men  would  be 
young  men,  and  that  there  might  possibly  be  a  lady  in 
the  case,  Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  a  pause  of  thought,  pass- 
ively agreed  that,  all  things  considered,  she  had  better 
remain  at  home.  No  lady  of  proper  decorum  likes  to 
run  the  risk  of  finding  herself  in  a  false  position.  Mr. 
Beaufort  accordingly  set  out  alone.  Easy  was  the  car- 
riage, swift  were  the  steeds,  and  luxuriously  the 
wealthy  man  was  whirled  along.  Not  a  suspicion  of 
the  true  cause  of  Arthur's  detention  crossed  him  ;  but 
he  thought  of  the  snares  of  London — of  artful  females 
in  distress ;  "  a  melancholy  adventure"  generally  im- 
plies love  for  the  adventure,  and  money  for  the  melan- 
choly ;  and  Arthur  was  young — generous — with  a  heart 
and  a  pocket  Equally  open  to  imposition.  Such  scrapes, 
however,  do  not  terrify  a  father  when  he  is  a  man  of 
the  world,  so  much  as  they  do  an  anxious  mother ;  and, 
with  more  curiosity  than  alarm,  Mr.  Beaufort,  after  a 
short  doze,  found  himself  before  the  shop  uidicated. 

Notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  door  to 
the  private  entrance  was  ajar :  a  circumstance  which 
seemed  very  suspicious  to  Mr.  Beaufort.  He  pushed 
it  open  M'ith  caution  and  timidity ;  a  candle,  placed  upon 
a  chair  in  the  narrow  passage,  threw  a  sickly  light  over 
the  flight  of  stairs,  till  swallowed  up  by  the  deep  shadow 
thrown  from  the  sharp  angle  made  by  the  ascent.  Rob- 
ert Beaufort  stood  a  moment  in  some  doubt  whether  to 
call,  to  knock,  to  recede,  or  to  advance,  when  a  step  was 
heard  upon  the  stairs  above — it  came  nearer  and  nearei 
— a  figure  emerged  f-om  the  sliadow  of  the  last  landing- 


164  NIGHT   AND   M0Ri^IN6. 

t)lace — and  Mr.  Beaufort,  to  his  great  joy,  recognised  his 
&on. 

Arthur  did  not,  however,  seem  ta  perceive  his  father  ; 
feind  was  about  to  pass  him,  when  Mr.  Beaufort  laid  his 
hand  on  his  arm. 

*'  What  means  all  this,  Arthur  1  What  place  are  you 
in  1    How  you  have  alarmed  us !" 

Arthur  cast  a  look  Upon  his  father  Of  sadness  and 
reproach. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  soUndfed  stem — al- 
most commanding,  "  I  will  show  you  where  I  have 
been  :  follow  me — nay,  I  say,  follow." 

He  turned,  without  another  word  reascendfed  the 
stairs,  and  Mr.  Beaufort,  surprised  and  awed  into  me- 
chanical obedience,  did  as  his  son  desired.  At  the  land- 
ing-place of  the  second  floor,  another  long-wicked,  neg- 
lected, ghastly  candle  emitted  its  cheerless  ray.  It 
gleamed  through  the  open  door  of  a  small  bedroom  to 
the  left,  through  which  Beaufort  perceived  the  fornis  of 
two  women.  One  (it  was  the  kindly  maid-servant)  was 
seated  on  a  chair,  and  weeping  bitterly ;  the  other  (it 
was  a  hireling  nurse,  in  the  first  and  last  day  of  her  at- 
tendance) was  unpinning  her  dingy  shawl  before  she  lay 
down  to  take  a  nap.  She  turned  her  vacant,  listless 
face  upon  the  two  men,  put  on  a  doleful  smile,  and  de- 
cently closed  the  door. 

"  Where  are  we,  I  say,  Arthur  1"  repeated  Mr.  Beau- 
fort. 

Arthur  took  his  father's  hand,  drew  him  into  a  room 
to  the  right,  and,  taking  up  the  candle,  placed  it  on  a 
smaU  table  beside  a  bed,  and  said,  "  Here,  sir— in  the 
presence  of  Death !" 

Mr.  Beaufort  cast  a  hurried  and  fearful  glance  on  the 
still,  wan,  serene  face  beneath  his  eyes,  and  recognised 
in  that  glance  the  features  of  the  neglected  and  the 
once-adored  Catharine. 

"  Yes — she  whom  your  brother  so  lOved — the  mother 
of  his  children — died  in  this  sqUalid  roorti,  and  far  from 
her  sons,  in  poverty,  in  sorrow! — died  of  a  broken  heart ! 
Was  that  well,  father  1  Have  you  in  this  nothing  to 
repent  V 

Conscience-stricken  and  appalled,  the  worldly  man 
sank  dovvn  on  a  seat  beside  the  bed,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"  Ay,"  continued  Arthur,  almost  bitterly, "  ay,  we>  his 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  105 

nearest  of  kin — we,  who  have  inherited  his  lands  and 
gold — we  have  been  thus  heedless  of  that  great  legacy 
your  brother  bequeathed  to  us :  the  things  dearest  to 
him — the  woman  he  loved — the  children  his  death  cast, 
nameless  and  branded,  on  the  world.  Ay,  weep,  father; 
and  while  you  weep,  think  of  the  future — of  repara- 
tion. I  have  sworn  to  that  clay  to  befriend  her  sons ; 
join  you,  who  have  all  the  power,  to  fulfil  the  promise 
' — join  in  that  vow ;  and  may  Heaven  not  visit  on  us 
both  the  woes  of  this  bed  of  death." 

"  I  did  not  know — I — I — "  faltered  Mr.  Beaufort. 

"  But  we  should  have  known,"  interrupted  Arthur, 
mournfully.  "  Ah,  my  dear  father !  do  not  harden  your 
heart  by  false  excuses.  The  dead  still  speaks  to  you, 
and  commends  to  your  care  her  children.  My  task  here 
is  done  :  oh,  sir !  yours  is  to  come.  I  leave  you  alone 
with  the  dead." 

So  saying,  the  young  man,  whom  the  tragedy  of  the 
scene  had  worked  into  a  passion  and  a  dignity  above  his 
usual  character,  unwilling  to  trust  farther  to  his  emo- 
tions, turned  abruptly  from  the  room,  fled  rapidly  down 
the  stairs,  and  left  the  house.  As  the  carriage  and  liv- 
eries of  his  father  met  his  eye,  he  groaned,  for  their  ev- 
idences of  comfort  and  wealth  seemed  a  mockery  to  the 
deceased  :  he  averted  his  face  and  walked  on.  Nor  did 
he  perceive  or  heed  a  form  that  at  that  instant  rushed 
by  him — pale,  haggard,  breathless — towards  the  house 
which  he  had  quitted,  and  the  door  of  which  he  left 
open,  as  he  had  found  it — open,  as  the  physician  had 
left  it  when  hurrying,  ten  minutes  before  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Beaufort,  from  the  spot  where  his  skill  was  impo- 
tent. Wrapped  in  gloomy  thought,  alone,  and  on  foot — 
at  that  dreary  hour,  and  in  that  remote  suburb — the  heir 
of  the  Beauforts  sought  his  splendid  home.  Anxious, 
fearful,  hopmg,  the  outcast  orphan  flew  on  to  the  death- 
room  of  his  mother. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  but  imperfectly  heard  Arthur's 
parting  accents,  lost  and  bewildered  by  the  strangeness 
of  his  situation,  did  not  at  first  perceive  that  he  was  left 
alone.  Surprised,  and  chilled  by  the  sudden  silence  of 
the  chamber,  he  rose,  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  face, 
and  again  he  saw  that  countenance  so  mute  and  solemn. 
He  cast  his  gaze  round  the  dismal  room  for  Arthur ;  he 
called  his  name — no  answer  came  ;  a  superstitious  tre- 
mour  seized  upon  him ;  his  limbs  shook  ;  he  sunk  once 


166  NIGHT  AND  Morning. 

hiore  on  his  seat,  and  closed  his  eyes,  muttering,  for  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  since  his  childhood,  words  of  peni^ 
tence  and  prayer.  He  was  roused  from  this  bitter  self- 
abstraction  by  a  deep  groan.  It  seemed  to  come  from 
the  bed.  Did  his  ears  deceive  him  1  Had  the  dead 
found  a  voice  1  He  started  up  in  an  agony  of  dread,  and 
saw  opposite  to  him  the  hvid  countenance  of  Philip 
Morton :  the  Son  of  the  Corpse  had  replaced  the  Son  of 
the  Living  Man !  The  dim  and  solitary  light  fell  upon 
that  countenance.  There,  all  the  bloom  and  freshness 
natural  to  youth  seemed  blasted  I  There,  on  those 
wasted  features,  played  all  the  terrible  power  and  glare 
of  precocious  passions — rage,  wo,  scorn,  despair.  Ter- 
rible is  it  to  see  upon  the  face  of  a  boy  the  storm  and 
whirlwind  that  should  visit  only  the  strong  heart  of  a 
man ! 

"  She  is  dead !  dead !  and  in  your  presence !"  shouted 
Philip,  with  his  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cowering 
uncle  ;  "  dead  with  care,  perhaps  with  famine.  And  yon 
have  come  to  look  upon  your  work !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  Beaufort,  deprecatingly,  "  I  have  but 
just  arrived  :  I  did  not  know  she  had  been  ill  or  in  want. 
Upon  my  honour.  This  is  all  a — a — mistake  :  I — I— » 
came  in  search  of — of — ^another — " 

"  You  did  no/, then, come  to  reheve  her?"  said  Philip, 
Very  calmly.  "  You  had  not  learned  her  suffering  and 
distress,  and  flown  hither  in  the  hope  that  there  was  yet 
time  to  save  her?  You  did  not  do  this  ?  Ha!  ha!  why 
did  I  think  it  1" 

"  Did  any  one  call,  gentlemen  ?"  said  a  whining  voice 
at  the  door ;  and  the  nurse  put  in  her  head. 

"  Yes— yes— you  may  come  in,"  said  Beaufort,  sha- 
king with  nameless  and  cowardly  apprehension ;  but 
Philip  had  fiown  to  the  door,  and,  gazing  on  the  nurse, 
said, 

"  She  is  a  stranger !  see,  a  stranger !  The  son  now 
has  assumed  his  post.  Begone,  woman !"  And  he 
pushed  her  away,  and  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door. 

And  then  there  looked  upon  him,  as  there  had  looked 
upon  his  reluctant  companion,  calm  and  holy,  the  face 
of  the  peaceful  corpse.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  on 
his  knees  so  close  to  Beaufort  that  he  touched  him  ;  he 
took  up  the  heavy  hand,  and  covered  it  with  burning 
kisses. 

"  Mother !  mother !  do  not  leave  me  !    Wake — smile 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  107 

once  more  on  your  son !  I  would  have  brought  you 
money,  but.  I  could  not  have  asked  for  your  blessing 
then ;  mother,  I  ask  it  now  !" 

"  If  I  had  but  known — if  you  had  but  written  to  me, 
my  dear  young  gentleman— but  my  offers  had  been  re- 
fused, and — " 

"  Offers  of  a  hireling's  pittance  to  her — to  her  for 
whom  my  father  would  have  coined  his  heart's  blood 
into  gold !     My  father's  wife  !  his  wife  !  offers — " 

He  rose  suddenly,  folded  his  arms,  and,  facing  Beaufort 
with  a  fierce,  determined  brow,  said, 

"  Mark  me  ;  you  hold  the  wealth  that  I  was  trained 
from  my  cradle  to  consider  my  heritage.  I  have  worked 
with  these  hands  for  bread,  and  never  complained,  ex- 
cept to  my  own  heart  and  soul.  I  never  hated  and 
never  cursed  you — robber  as  you  were — yes,  robber  ! 
For,  even  were  there  no  marriage  save  in  the  sight  of 
God,  neither  my  father,  nor  Nature,  nor  Heaven  meant 
that  you  should  seize  all,  and  that  there  should  be  no- 
thing due  to  the  claims  of  affection  and  blood.  He  was 
not  the  less  my  father,  even  if  the  Church  spoke  not  on 
my  side.  Despoiler  of  the  orphan  and  derider  of  human 
love,  you  are  not  the  less  a  robber,  though  the  law  fences 
you  round,  and  men  call  you  honest !  But  I  did  not  hate 
you  for  this.  Now,  in  the  presence  of  my  dead  mother 
'■ — dead  far  from  both  her  sons — now  I  abhor  and  curse 
you.  You  may  think  yourself  safe  when  you  quit  this 
room — safe,  and  from  my  hatred  ;  you  may  be  so  :  but 
do  not  deceive  yourself ;  the  curse  of  the  widow  and 
the  orphan  shall  pursue — it  shall  cling  to  you  and  yours 
— it  shall  gnaw  your  heart  in  the  midst  of  splendour — it 
shall  cleave  to  the  heritage  of  your  son  I  There  shall 
be  a  deathbed  yet,  beside  which  you  shall  see  the  spec- 
tre of  her,  now  so  calm,  rising  for  retribution  from  the 
grave  !  These  words — no,  you  never  shall  forget  them 
— years  hence  they  shall  ring  in  your  cars,  and  freeze 
the  marrow  of  your  bones  !  And  now  begone,  my  fa- 
ther's brother — begone  from  my  mother's  corpse  to  your 
luxurious  home  !" 

He  opened  the  door  and  pointed  to  the  stairs.  Beau, 
fort,  without  a  word,  turned  from  the  room  and  departed. 
He  heard  the  door  closed  and  locked  as  he  descended 
the  stairs ;  but  he  did  not  hear  the  deep  groans  and  vehe- 
ment sobs  in  which  the  desolate  orphan  gave  vent  to  the 
anguish  which  succeeded  to  the  less  sacred  paroxysm 
of  revenge  and  wrath. 


BOOK    II. 

Slimmer,  nimmcc  ftanb  tc^  ftiU ; " 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Jncubo.  Look  to  the  cavalier.     What  ails  he  ? 


Hostess.  And  in  such  good  clothes,  too !" 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ;  Love's  Pilgrimage, 

"  Theod.  I  have  a  brother — there  my  last  hope  I 

Thus  as  you  find  me,  without  fear  or  wisdom, 
I  now  am  only  child  of  Hope  and  Danger." — Ihid. 

The  time  employed  by  Mr.  Beaufort  in  reaching  his 
home  was  haunted  by  gloomy  and  confused  terrors.  He 
felt  inexplicably  as  if  the  denunciations  of  Phihp  were 
to  visit  less  himself  than  his  son.  He  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  Arthur  meeting  this  strange,  wild,  exasper- 
ated scatterling — perhaps  on  the  morrow — in  the  very 
height  of  his  passions.  And  yet,  after  the  scene  between 
Arthur  and  himself,  he  saw  cause  to  fear  that  he  might 
not  be  able  to  exercise  a  sufficient  authority  over  his 
son,  however  naturally  facile  and  obedient,  to  prevent 
his  return  to  the  house  of  death.  In  this  dilemma  he 
resolved,  as  is  usual  with  cleverer  men,  even  when 
yoked  to  yet  feebler  helpmates,  to  hear  if  his  wife  had 
anything  comforting  or  sensible  to  say  upon  the  subject. 
Accordingly,  on  reaching  Berkeley  Square,  he  went 
straight  to  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and,  having  relieved  her  mind 
as  to  Arthur's  safety,  related  the  scene  in  which  he  had 
been  so  unwilling  an  actor.  With  that  more  lively  sus- 
ceptibility which  belongs  to  mo.st  wonien,  however  com- 
paratively unfeeling,  Mrs.  Beaufort  made  greater  allow- 
ance than  her  hu.sband  for  the  excitement  Philip  had 
betrayed.  Still  Beaufort's  description  of  the  dark  men- 
aces, the  fierce  countenance,  the  brigand-hke  form  of 
the  bereaved  son,  gave  her  very  considerable  apprehen- 


NIGUT    AND    MORNING.  109 

sions  for  Arthur,  should  the  young  men  meet ;  and  she 
willingly  coincided  with  her  husband  in  the  propriety  of 
using  all  means  of  parental  persuasion  or  command  to 
guard  against  such  an  encounter.  But,  in  the  mean 
while,  Arthur  returned  not,  and  new  fears  seized  the 
anxious  parents.  He  had  gone  forth  alone,  in  a  remote 
suburb  of  the  metropolis,  at  a  late  hour,  himself  under 
strong  excitement.  He  might  have  returned  to  the 
house,  or  have  lost  his  way  amid  some  dark  haunts  of 
violence  and  crime ;  they  knew  not  where  to  send  or 
what  to  suggest.  Day  already  began  to  dawn,  and  still 
he  came  not.  At  length,  towards  five  o'clock,  a  loud 
rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Beaufort,  hearing 
some  bustle  in  the  hall,  descended.  He  saw  his  son 
borne  into  the  hall  from  a  hackney-coach  by  two  straur 
gers,  pale,  bleeding,  and  apparently  insensible.  His  first 
thought  was  that  he  had  been  murdered  by  Philip.  He 
uttered  a  feeble  cry,  and  sank  down  beside  his  son. 

"  Don't  be  darnted,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  strangers,  who 
seemed  an  artisan ;  "  I  don't  tliink  he  be  much  hurt. 
You  sees  he  was  crossing  the  street,  and  the  coach  ran 
against  him  ;  but  it  did  not  go  over  his  head ;  it  be  only 
the  stones  that  make  him  bleed  so  :  and  that's  a  mercy." 

"  A  providence,  sir,"  said  the  other  man  ;  "  but  Provir 
dence  watches  over  us  all,  night  and  day,  sleep  or  wake. 
Hem !  We  were  passing  at  the  time  from  the  meeting 
— the  Odd  Fellows,  sir — and  so  we  took  him,  and  got 
him  a  coach ;  for  we  found  his  card  in  his  pocket.  He 
could  not  speak  just  then  ;  but  the  rattling  of  the  coach 
did  him  a  deal  of  good,  for  he  groaned — my  eyes  !  how 
he  groaned — did  not  he,  Burrows  V 

"  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  hear  him." 

"  Run  for  Astley  Cooper — you — go  to  Brodie.  Good 
God!  he  is  dying.  Be  quick — quick!"  cried  Mr.  Beau- 
fort to  his  servants,  while  Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  had  now 
gained  the  spot,  with  greater  presence  of  mind,  had 
Arthur  conveyed  into  his  room. 

"  It  is  a  judgment  upon  me  !"  groaned  Beaufort,  rooted 
to  the  stone  of  his  hall,  and  Jeft  alone  with  the  strangers. 

"  No,  sir,  it  is  rjot  a  judgment,  it  is  a  pravidence.,''''  said 
the  more  sanctimonious  and  better  dressed  of  the  two 
men  :  "  for,  put  the  question,  if  it  had  been  a  judgment, 
the  wheel  \vould  have  gone  over  him  ;  and,  whether  he 
dies  or  not,  I  shall  always  say  that  if  that's  not  a  provi- 
dence, I  don't  know  what  is.     We  have  come  a  long 

Vol.  I.— K 


110  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

way,  sir ;  and  Burrows  is  a  poor  man,  though  I'm  well 
to  do." 

This  hint  for  money  restored  Beaufort  to  his  recol- 
lection ;  he  put  his  purse  into  the  nearest  hand  out- 
stretched to  clutch  it,  and  muttered  out  something  like 
thanks. 

"  Sir,  may  the  Lord  bless  you  I  and  I  hope  the  young 
gentleman  will  do  well.  I  am  sure  you  have  cause  to 
be  thankful  that  he  was  within  an  inch  of  the  wheel ; 
was  not  he,  Burrows  1  Well,  it's  enough  to  convert  a 
heathen.  But  the  ways  of  Providence  are  mysterious, 
and  that's  the  truth  of  it.     Good-night,  sir." 

Certainly  it  did  seem  as  if  the  curse  of  Philip  was  al- 
ready at  its  work.  An  accident  almost  similar  to  that 
which,  in  the  adventure  of  the  blind  man,  had  led  Ar- 
thur to  the  clew  of  Catharnie,  within  twenty-four  hours 
stretched  Arthur  himself  upon  his  bed.  The  sorrow 
Mr.  Beaufort  had  not  relieved  was  now  at  his  own 
heartli.  But  there  were  parents  and  nurses,  and  great 
physicians  and  skilful  surgeons,  and  all  the  army  that 
combine  against  Death  ;  and  there  were  ease,  and  lux- 
ury, and  kind  eyes,  and  pitying  looks,  and  all  that  can 
take  the  sting  from  pain.  And  thus,  the  very  night  on 
which  Catharine  had  died,  broken  down  and  worn-out, 
upon  a  strange  breast,  with  a  feeless  doctor,  and  by  the 
ray  of  a  single  candle,  the  heir  to  the  fortunes  once  des- 
tined to  her  son  wrestled  also  with  the  grim  tyrant,  that 
seemed,  however,  scared  from  his  prey  by  the  arts  and 
luxuries  which  the  world  of  rich  men  raises  up  in  defi- 
ance of  the  grave. 

Arthur  was,  indeed,  very  seriously  injured  ;  one  of  his 
ribs  broken,  and  two  severe  contusions  on  the  head.  To 
insensibility  succeeded  fever,  followed  by  delirium.  He 
was  in  imminent  danger  for  several  days.  If  anything 
could  have  consoled  his  parents  for  such  an  affliction,  it 
was  the  thought  that,  at  least,  he  was  saved  from  the 
chance  of  meeting  Philip.  Mr.  Beaufort,  in  tlie  instinct 
of  that  capricious  and  fluctuating  conscience  which  be- 
longs to  weak  minds — which  remains  still,  and  drooping, 
and  hfeless  as  a  flag  on  a  masthead  din-ing  the  calm  of 
prosperity,  but  flutters,  and  flaps,  and  tosses  when  the 
wind  blows  and  the  wave  heaves — thought  very  acutely 
and  r(!morsefully  of  the  condition  of  the  Mortons  during 
the  danger  of  his  own  son.  So  far,  indeed,  from  his 
anxiety  for  Arthur  monopolizing  all  his  care,  it  only 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  Ill 

shaqjened  his  charity  tpwards  the  orphans  ;  for  many  a 
man  becomes  devout  and  good  when  he  fancies  he  has 
an  immediate  interest  in  appeasing  Providence.  The 
morning  after  Arthur's  accident,  he  sent  for  Mr.  Black- 
well.  He  commissioned  him  to  see  that  Catharine's 
funeral  rites  were  performed  with  all  due  care  and  at- 
tention :  he  bade  him  obtain  an  interview  with  Philip, 
and  assure  the  youth  of  Mr.  Beaufort's  good  and  friendly 
disposition  towards  him,  and  to  offer  to  forward  his 
views  in  any  course  of  education  he  might  prefer,  or  any 
profession  he  might  adopt ;  and  he  earnestly  counselled 
the  lawyer  to  employ  all  his  tact  and  delicacy  in  confer- 
ring with  one  of  so  proud  and  fiery  a  temper.  Mr. 
Blackwell,  however,  had  no  tact  or  delicacy  to  employ  : 
he  went  to  the  house  of  mourning,  forced  his  way  to 
Philip,  and  the  very  exordium  of  his  harangue,  which 
was  devoted  to  praises  of  the  extraordinary  generosity 
and  benevolence  of  his  employer,  mingled  with  conde- 
scending admonitions  towards  gratitude  from  Philip,  so 
exasperated  the  boy,  that  Mr.  Blackwell  was  extremely 
glad  to  get  out  of  the  house  with  a  whole  skin.  He, 
however,  did  not  neglect  the  more  formal  part  of  his 
mission ;  but  communicated  immediately  with  a  fash- 
ionable undertaker,  and  gave  orders  for  a  very  genteel 
funeral.  He  thought,  after  the  funeral,  that  Philip  would 
be  in  a  less  excited  state  of  mind,  and  more  likely  to 
hear  reason ;  he  therefore  deferred  a  second  interview 
with  the  orphan  till  after  that  event ;  and,  in  the  mean 
while,  despatched  a  letter  to  Mr.  Beaufort,  stating  that 
he  had  attended  to  his  instructions  ;  that  the  orders  for 
the  funeral  were  given  ;  but  that,  at  present,  Mr.  Philip 
Morton's  mind  was  a  little  disordered,  and  that  he  could 
not  calmly  discuss,  just  at  present,  the  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture suggested  by  Mr.  Beaufort.  He  did  not  doubt,  how- 
ever, that  in  another  interview  all  would  be  arranged 
according  to  the  wishes  his  client  had  so  nobly  conveyed 
to  him.  Mr.  Beaufort's  conscience  on  this  point  was 
tlierefore  set  at  rest. 

It  was  a  dull,  close,  oppressive  moniing  upon  which 
the  remains  of  Catharine  Morton  were  consigned  to  the 
grave.  With  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  Philip  did 
not  interfere  ;  he  did  not  inquire  by  whose  orders  all 
that  solemnity  of  mutes,  and  coaches,  and  black  plumes, 
and  crapebands  was  appointed.  If  his  vague  and  unde- 
veloped conjecture  ascribed  this  last  and  vain  attention 


Il2  NIGHT   AND   MORNING* 

to  Robert  Beaufort,  it  neither  lessened  the  siillen  resent- 
ment he  felt  against  his  uncle,  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  he  conceive  that  he  had  a  right  to  forbid  respect  to* 
the  dead,  though  he  might  reject  service  for  the  surviver. 
He  had  remained  in  a  sort  of  apathy  or  torpor  since  Mr. 
Blackwell's  visit,  which  seemed  to  the  people  of  the 
house  to  pd.rtake  rather  of  indifference  than  wo. 

The  funeral  Was  over,  and  Philip  had  returned  to  the 
apartments  occupied  by  the  deceased  ;  and  now,  for  the 
first  time,  he  set  himself  to  examine  what  papers,  &c.y 
she  had  left  behind.  In  an  old  escritoire  he  found,  first, 
various  packets  of  letters  in  his  father's  handwriting,- 
the  characters  in  many  of  them  faded  by  time.  He 
opened  a  few  :  they  were  the  earliest  love-letters.  He 
did  not  dare  to  read  above  a  few  lines,  so  much  did  their 
living  tenderness,  and  breathing,  frank,  hearty  passion, 
contrast  with  the  fate  of  the  adored  one.  In  these  let- 
ters the  very  heart  of  the  writer  seemed  to  beat !  Now 
both  hearts  alike  were  stilled  !  and  Ghost  called  vainly 
imto  Ghost  ! 

He  came,  at  length,  to  a  letter  in  his  mother's  hand, 
and  dated  two  days  before  her  death.  He  went  to  the 
window,  and  gasped  in  the  midst  of  the  sultry  air  for 
breath.  Below  were  heard  the  noises  of  London  :  the 
shrill  cries  of  ithierant  venders,  the  roUing^  carts,  the 
tvhoop  of  boys  returned  for  a  while  from  school ;  amid 
all  these  rose  one  loud,  merry  peal  of  laugliter,  which 
drew  his  attention  mechanically  to  the  spot  whence  it 
Came  :  it  was  at  the  threshold  of  a  public  house,  before 
which  stood  the  hearse  that  had  conveyed  his  mother's 
coffin,  and  the  gay  undertakers,  halting  there  to  refresh 
themselves.  He  closed  the  window  with  a  groan,  re- 
tired to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  and  read  as 
follows  i 

"  Mv  DfiAHEsf  Philip,— ^When  you  read  this  I  shall 
be  no  more.  You  and  poor  Sidney  will  have  neither 
father  nor  mother,'  nor  fortune  nor  name.  Heaven  is 
more  just  than  man,  and  in  Heaven  is  my  hope  for  you. 
■  Yo\i,  Philip,  are  already  past  childhood  ;  your  nature  is 
one  formed,  I  think,  to  wrestle  successfully  with  the 
world.  Guard  against  your  own  passions,  and  you  may 
bid  defiance  to  the  obstacles  that  will  beset  your  patli  in 
life.  And  lately,  in  our  reverses,  Philip,  you  have  so 
subdued  these  passions,  so  schooled  the  pride  and  ira- 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  113 

petuosity  of  your  childhood,  that  I  have  contemplated 
your  prospects  with  less  fear  than  I  used  to  do,  even 
when  they  seemed  so  brilliant.  Forgive  me,  my  dear 
child,  if  I  have  concealed  from  you  my  state  of  health, 
and  if  my  death  be  a  sudden  and  unlooked-for  shock. 
Do  not  grieve  for  me  too  long.  For  myself,  my  release 
is  indeed  escape  from  the  prison-house  and  the  chain — 
from  bodily  pain  and  mental  torture,  which  may,  I  fond- 
ly hope,  prove  some  expiation  forihe  errors  of  a  hap- 
pier time.  For  I  did  err  when,  even  from  the  least  self- 
ish motives,  I  suffered  my  union  with  your  father  to 
remain  concealed,  and  thus  ruined  the  hopes  of  those 
who  had  rights  upon  me  equal  even  to  his.  But  oh! 
Philip,  beware,  too,  of  the  passions,  which  do  not  betray 
their  fruit  till  years  and  years  after  the  leaves  that  look 
so  green  and  the  blossoms  that  seem  so  fair. 

"  I  repeat  my  solemn  injunction.  Do  not  grieve  for  me, 
but  strengthen  your  mind  and  heart  to  receive  the  charge 
that  I  now  confide  to  you — my  Sidney,  my  child,  your 
brother !  He  is  so  soft,  so  gentle ;  he  has  been  so  de- 
pendant fbr  very  life  upon  me,  and  we  are  parted  now 
for  the  first  and  last  time.  lie  is  with  strangers  ;  and — 
and— oh  Philip,  Philip,  watch  over  him  for  the  love  you 
bear,  not  only  to  him,  but  to  me  !  Be  to  him  a  father  as 
well  as  brother.  Put  your  stout  heart  against  the  world 
so  that  you  may  screen  him,  the  weak  child,  from  its 
malice.  He  has  not  your  talents  nor  strength  of  char- 
acter ;  without  you  he  is  nothing.  Live,  toil,  rise  for 
his  sake  not  less  than  your  own.  If  you  knew  how  this 
heart  beats  as  I  write  to  you — if  you  could  conceive 
what  comfort  I  take  for  him  from  my  confidence  in  you, 
you  would  feci  a  new  spirit — my  spirit — my  mother- 
spirit  of  love,  and  forethought,  and  vigilance,  enter  into 
you  while  you  read.  See  him  when  I  am  gone ;  com- 
fort and  sooth  him.  Happily,  he  is  too  young  yet  to 
know  all  his  loss ;  and  do  not  let  him  think  unkindly  of 
me  in  the  days  to  come  ;  for  he  is  a  child  now,  and  they 
may  poison  his  mind  against  me  more  easily  than  they 
can  yours.  Think,  if  he  is  unhappy  hereafter,  he  may 
forget  how  I  loved  him — he  may  curse  those  who  gave 
him  birth.  Forgive  me  all  this,  Philip,  my  son,  and 
heed  it  well. 

"  And  now,  where  you  find  this  letter  you  will  see  a 
key ;  it  opens  a  well  in  the  bureau  in  which  I  have 
hoarded  my  little  savi-ags.  You  will  see  that  I  have  not 
K2 


114  ^IGrt*f    XilD    MORNING* 

died  in  poverty.  Take  what  there  is ;  young  as  you 
are,  you  may  want  it  more  now  than  hereafter.  But 
hold  it  in  trust  for  your  brother  as  well  as  yourself.  If 
he  is  harshly  treated  (and  you  Will  go  and  see  him,  and 
you  will  remember  that  he  would  writhe  under  what 
you  might  scarcely  feel),  or  if  they  overtask  him,  he  is 
so  young  to  work  yet,  it  may  find  him  a  home  near  you. 
God  watch  over  and  guard  you  both.  You  are  orphans 
now.  But  He  has  told  even  the  orphans  to  call  him 
'Father!'" 

When  he  had  read  this  letter,  Philip  Mofton  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  prayed 


CHAPTER  n. 

*'  His  curse  !     Dost  comprehend  what  that  word  means  ? 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath." 

James  Shirley  :  The  Brothers. 

"  This  term  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me."— Ibid. 

"  Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 
Our  human  nature  .... 

Conversed  but  little  with  the  world— they  knew  not 
The  fierce  vexation  of  cormnunity  !" — Ibid. 

After  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  Philip 
opened  the  well  of  the  bureau,  and  was  astonished  and 
affected  to  find  that  Catharine  had  saved  more  than 
jClOO.  Alas  !  how  much  must  she  have  pinched  her- 
self to  have  hoarded  this  little  treasure.  After  burning 
his  father's  love-letters,  and  some  other  papers  which 
he  deemed  useless,  he  made  up  a  little  bundle  of  thosa 
trifling  effects  belonging  to  the  deceased  which  he  val- 
ued as  memorials  and  relics  of  her,  quitted  the  apart- 
ment, and  descended  to  the  parlour  behind  the  shop. 
On  the  way  he  met  with  the  kind  servant,  and,  recalling 
the  grief  that  she  had  manifested  for  his  mother  since 
he  had  been  in  the  house,  he  placed  two  sovereigns  in 
her  hand,  and  bade  her  keep  the  scanty  wardrobe  poor 
Catharine  had  left  behind.  "  And  now,"  said  he,  as  the 
servant  wept  while  he  spoke,  "  71010  I  can  bear  to  ask 
you  what  I  have  not  before  done;  How  did  my  poor 
mother  die  ?    Did  she  sitffer  much— or — or-^" 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  115 

"  She  went  off  like  a  lamb,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  drying 
her  eyes.  "  You  see  the  gentleman  had  been  with  hei 
all  the  day,  and  she  was  much  more  easy  and  comfort- 
able in  her  mind  after  he  came." 

"  The  gentleman  !    Not  the  gentleman  I  found  here  V 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  Not  the  pale,  middle-aged  gentleman 
nurse  and  I  saw  go  down  as  the  clock  struck  two.  But 
the  young,  soft-spoken  gentleman,  who  came  in  the 
morning,  and  said  as  how  he  was  a  relation.  He  stay- 
ed with  her  till  she  slept ;  and,  when  she  woke,  she 
smiled  in  his  face — I  shall  never  forget  that  smile — for 
I  was  standing  on  the  other  side,  as  it  might  be  here, 
and  the  doctor  was  by  the  window,  pouring  out  the  doc- 
tor's stuff  in  tiie  glass  ;  and  so  she  looked  on  the  young 
gentleman,  and  then  looked  round  at  us  all,  and  shook 
her  head  very  gently,  but  did  not  speak.  And  the  gen- 
tleman asked  her  how  she  felt,  and  she  took  both  his 
hands  and  kissed  them  ;  and  then  he  put  his  arms  round 
and  raised  her  up,  to  take  the  physic,  like,  and  she  said 
then,  '  You  will  never  forget  them?''  and  he  said,  '  Nev- 
er.'   I  don't  know  what  that  meant,  sir !" 

**  Well,  well — go  on." 

"  And  her  head  fell  back  on  his  buzzom,  and  she  look* 
ed  so  happy ;  and,  when  the  doctor  came  to  the  bedside, 
she  was  quite  gone." 

"And  the  stranger  had  my  post!  No  matter— God 
bless  him  !  God  bless  him  !  Who  was  he  ?  What  was 
his  name  ]" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir ;  he  did  not  say.  He  stayed  after 
the  doctor  went,  and  cried  very  bitterly ;  he  took  on 
more  than  you  did,  sir." 

"  Ay." 

"  And  the  other  gentleman  came  just  as  he  was  a  go- 
ing, and  they  did  not  seem  to  like  each  other ;  for  I 
heard  him  through  the  wall,  as  nurse  and  I  were  in  the 
next  room,  speak  as  if  he  was  scolding ;  but  he  did  not 
stay  long." 

"  And  has  never  been  since  V 

"  No,  sir !  Perhaps  missus  can  tell  you  more  about 
him.  But  won't  you  take  something,  sir?  Do — you 
look  so  pale." 

Philip,  without  speaking,  pushed  her  gently  aside,  and 
went  slowly  down  the  stairs.  He  entered  the  parlour 
where  two  or  three  children  were  seated,  playing  at 
dominoes ;  he  despatched  one  for  their  mother,  the  mis- 


116  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

tress  of  the  shop,  who  came  in,  and  dropped  him  a  cour- 
tesy with  a  very  grave,  sad  face,  as  was  proper. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  your  house,  ma'am  ;  and  I  wish 
to  settle  any  little  arrears  of  rent,  &c." 

"  Oh !  sir,  don't  mention  it,"  said  the  landlady ;  and, 
as  she  spoke,  she  took  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  bosom, 
very  neatly  folded,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  "  And  here, 
sir,"  she  added,  taking  from  the  same  depository  a  card, 
"  here  is  the  card  left  by  the  gentleman  who  saw  to 
the  funeral.  He  called  half  an  hour  ago,  and  bade  rne 
say,  with  his  compliments,  that  he  would  wait  on  you 
to-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock.  So  I  hope  you  won't  go 
yet,  for  I  think  he  means  to  settle  everything  for  you ; 
he  said  as  much,  sir." 

Philip  glanced  over  the  card,  and  read,  "  Mr.  George 
Blackwell,  Lincoln's  Inn."  His  brow  grew  dark  ;  he  let 
the  card  fall  on  the  ground,  put  his  foot  on  it  with  a 
quiet  scorn,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "  The  lawyer  shall 
not  bribe  me  out  of  my  curse !"  He  turned  to  the  total 
of  the  bill — not  heavy,  for  poor  Catharine  had  paid  reg- 
ularly for  her  scanty  maintenance  and  humble  lodging — 
paid  the  money,  and,  as  the  landlady  wrote  the  receipt, 
he  asked,  "  Who  was  the  gentleman — the  younger  gen- 
tleman— who  called  in  the  morning  of  the  day  my  moth- 
er died  r' 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  get  his  name  !  Mr. 
Perkins  said  that  he  was  some  relation.  Very  odd  he 
has  never  been  since.  But  he'll  be  sure  to  call  again, 
sir ;  you  had  better  much  stay  here." 

"  No :  it  does  not  signify.  All  that  he  could  do  is 
done.     But  stay  ;  give  him  this  note  if  he  should  call." 

Philip,  taking  the  pen  from  the  landlady's  hand,  hasti- 
ly wrote  (while  Mrs.  Lacy  went  to  bring  him  sealing- 
wax  and  a  light)  these  words ; 

"  I  cannot  guess  who  you  are :  they  say  that  you  call 
yourself  a  relation ;  that  must  be  some  mistake.  I 
knew  not  that  my  poor  mother  had  relations  so  kind. 
Bui,  whoever  you  be,  you  soothed  her  last  hours — she 
died  in  your  arms  ;  and  if  ever— years,  long  years  hence 
— we  should  chance  to  meet,  and  I  can  do  anything  to 
aid  another,  my  blood,  and  my  life,  and  my  heart,  and 
my  soul  all  are  slaves  to  your  will.  If  you  be  really 
of  her  kindred,  I  commend  to  you  my  brother ;  he  is  at 
with  Mr.  Morton.    If  you  can  serve  hira,  my  moth- 


NIGHT    Aift)    MORNING.  117 

er's  soul  will  watch  over  you  as  a  guardian  angel.  As 
for  me,  I  ask  no  help  from  any  one  :  I  go  into  the  world, 
and  will  carve  out  my  own  way.  So  much  do  1  shrink 
from  the  thought  of  charity  from  others,  that  I  do  not 
believe  I  could  bless  you  as  I  do  now  if  your  kindness 
to  me  did  not  close  with  the  stone  upon  my  mother's 
grave.  Philip." 

He  sealed  this  letter  and  gave  it  to  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,"  said  she,  "  I  had  forgot ;  the  doctor 
said  that  if  you  would  send  for  him,  he  would  be  most 
happy  to  call  on  you  and  give  you  any  advice." 

"  Very  well." 

"  And  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Blackwell  ?" 

"  That  he  may  tell  his  employer  to  remember  our 
last  interview." 

With  that  Philip  took  up  his  bundle  and  strode  from 
the  house.  He  went  first  to  the  churchyard,  where  his 
mother's  remains  had  been  that  day  interred.  It  was 
near  at  hand  :  a  quiet,  almost  a  rural  spot.  The  gate 
stood  ajar,  for  there  was  a  public  path  through  the 
churchyard,  and  Philip  entered  with  a  noiseless  tread. 
It  was  then  near  evening :  the  sun  had  broke  out  from 
the  mists  of  the  earlier  day,  and  the  westering  rays  shone 
bright  and  holy  upon  the  solemn  place. 

"Mother!  mother!"  sobbed  the  orphan,  as  he  fell 
prostrate  before  that  fresh  green  mound  :  "  here — here 
I  have  come  to  repeat  my  oath — to  swear  again  that  I 
will  be  faithful  to  the  charge  you  have  intrusted  to  your 
wretched  son  !  And  at  this  hour  I  dare  ask  if  there  be 
on  this  earth  one  more  miserable  and  forlorn  V 

As  words  to  this  effect  struggled  from  his  lips,  a  loud, 
shrill  voice — the  cracked,  painful  voice  of  weak  age 
wrestling  with  strong  passion — rose  close  at  hand. 

"  Away,  reprobate  !  thou  art  accursed  !" 

Philip  started,  and  shuddered  as  if  the  words  were  ad- 
dressed to  himself,  and  from  the  grave.  But,  as  he  rose 
on  his  knee,  and,  tossing  the  wild  hair  from  his  eyes, 
looked  confusedly  round,  he  saw  at  a  short  distance,  and 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  two  forms  :  the  one  an  old 
man  with  gray  hair,  who  was  seated  on  a  crumbling 
wooden  tomb  facing  the  setting  sun  ;  the  other  a  man 
apparently  yet  in  the  vigour  of  life,  who  appeared  bent 
as  in  humble  supplication.  The  old  man's  hands  were 
outstretched  over  the  liead  of  the  younger,  as  if  suiting 


118  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

terrible  action  to  the  terrible  words,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause — a  moment,  but  it  seemed  far  longer  to 
Philip — there  was  heard  a  deep,  wild,  ghastly  howl  from 
a  dog  that  cowered  at  the  old  man's  feet ;  a  howl,  per- 
haps, of  fear  at  the  passion  of  his  master,  which  the  an- 
imal might  associate  with  danger. 

"Father!  father!"  said  the  suppliant,  reproachfully, 
"  your  very  dog  rebukes  your  curse." 

"  Be  dumb !  My  dog  !  What  hast  thou  left  me  on 
earth  but  him  1  Thou  hast  made  me  loathe  the  sight  of 
friends,  for  thou  hast  made  me  loathe  mine  own  name. 
Thou  hast  covered  it  with  disgrace — thou  hast  made 
mine  old  age  a  by-word — thy  crimes  leave  me  solitary 
in  the  midst  of  my  shame  !" 

"  It  is  many  years  since  we  met,  father ;  we  may 
never  meet  again — shall  we  part  thus  ?" 

"  Thus,  aha!"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  withering 
sarcasm  ;  "  I  comprehend — you  are  come  for  money  !" 

At  this  taunt  the  son  started  as  if  stung  by  a  serpent, 
raised  his  head  to  its  full  height,  folded  his  arms,  and 
replied, 

"  Sir,  you  wrong  me  :  for  more  than  twenty  years  I 
have  maintained  myself — no  matter  how,  but  without 
taxing  you — and  now  I  felt  remorse  for  having  suffered 
you  to  discard  me — now,  when  you  are  old  and  helpless, 
and,  I  heard,  blind  ;  and  you  might  want  aid  even  from 
your  poor,  good-for-nothing  son.  But  I  have  done.  For- 
get not  my  sins,  but  this  interview.  Repeal  your  curse, 
father ;  I  have  enough  on  my  head  without  yours :  and 
Bo — let  the  son  at  least  bless  the  father  who  curses  him. 
Farewell !" 

The  speaker  turned  as  he  thus  said,  with  a  voice  that 
trembled  at  the  close,  and  brushed  rapidly  by  Philip, 
whom  he  did  not,  however,  appear  to  perceive  ;  but 
Philip,  by  the  last  red  beam  of  the  sun,  saw  again  that 
marked,  storm-beaten  face  which  it  was  difficult,  once 
Been,  to  forget,  and  recognised  the  stranger  on  whose 
breast  he  had  slept  the  night  of  his  first  fatal  visit  to 
11 . 

Tiie  old  man's  imperfect  vision  did  not  detect  the  de- 
parture of  his  son,  but  his  face  changed  and  softened  as 
the  latter  strode  silently  through  the  rank  grass. 

"  William  !"  he  said  at  last,  gently  ;  "  William  !"  and 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed  cheeks  ;  "  my  son  !" 
but  that  son  was  gone  ;  the  old  man  listened  for  reply — 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  lid 

none  came.  "  He  has  left  me — poor  William ! — we  shall 
never  meet  again  ;"  and  he  sank  once  more  on  the  old 
tombstone,  dumb,  rigid,  motionless  :  an  image  of  Time 
himself  in  his  own  domain  of  Graves.  The  dog  crept 
closer  to  his  master  and  licked  his  hand.  Philip  stood 
for  a  moment  in  thoughtful  silence :  his  exclamation 
of  despair  had  been  answered  as  by  his  better  angel. 
There  was  a  being  more  miserable  than  himself;  and 
the  Accursed  would  have  envied  the  Bereaved ! 

The  twilight  had  closed  in  ;  the  earliest  star — the  star 
of  Memory  and  Love,  the  Hesperus  hymned  by  every 
poet  since  the  world  began — was  fair  in  the  arch  of  heav- 
en, as  Philip  quitted  the  spot  with  a  spirit  more  recon- 
ciled to  the  future,  more  softened,  chastened,  attuned  to 
gentle  and  pious  thoughts,  than  perhaps  ever  yet  had 
made  his  soul  dominant  over  the  deep  and  dark  tide  of 
his  gloomy  passions.  He  went  thence  to  a  neighbouring 
sculptor,  and  paid  beforehand  for  a  plain  tablet  to  be 
placed  above  the  grave  he  had  left.  He  had  just  quitted 
that  shop,  in  the  same  street,  not  many  doors  removed 
from  the  house  in  which  his  mother  had  breathed  her 
last.  He  was  pausing  by  a  crossing,  irresolute  whether 
to  repair  at  once  to  the  home  assigned  to  Sidney,  or  to 
seek  some  shelter  in  town  for  that  night,  when  three 
men  who  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  sudden- 
ly caught  sight  of  him. 

"  There  he  is — there  he  is  ;  stop,  sir !  stop  !" 

Philip  heard  these  words,  looked  up,  and  recognised 
the  voice  and  the  person  of  Mr.  Plaskwith ;  the  book- 
seller was  accompanied  by  Mr.  Plimmins  and  a  sturdy, 
ill-favoured  stranger. 

A  nameless  feeling  of  fear,  rage,  and  .disgust  seized 
the  unhappy  boy,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  a  ragged 
vagabond  whispered  to  him, "  Stump  it,  my  cove ;  that's 
a  Bow-street  runner." 

Then  there  shot  through  Philip's  head  the  recollection 
of  the  money  he  had  seized,  though  but  to  dash  away  : 
was  he  now — he,  still,  to  his  own  conviction,  the  heir 
of  an  ancient  and  spotless  name — to  be  hunted  as  a  thief; 
or,  at  the  best,  what  right  over  his  person  and  his  liberty 
had  he  given  to  this  taskmaster  1  Ignorant  of  the  law, 
the  law  only  seemed  to  him,  as  it  ever  does  to  the  igno- 
rant and  the  friendless,  a  foe.  Quicker  than  lightning, 
these  thoughts,  which  it  takes  so  many  words  to  de- 
Bcribe,  flashed  through  the  storm  and  darkness  of  his 


120  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

breast ;  and,  at  the  very  instant  that  Mr.  Phmniins  had 
laid  hands  on  his  shoulder,  his  resolution  was  formed. 
The  instinct  of  self  beat  loud  at  his  heart.  With  a  bound 
— a  spring,  that  sent  Mr.  Plimmins  sprawling  in  the  ken- 
nel, he  darted  across  the  road,  and  fled  down  an  opposite 
lane. 

"  Stop  him !  stop  !"  cried  the  bookseller ;  and  the  of- 
ficer rushed  after  him  with  algiost  equal  speed.  Lane 
after  lane,  alley  after  alley,  fled  Philip  ;  dodging,  winding, 
breathless,  panting ;  and  lane  after  lane,  alley  after  al- 
ley, thickened  at  his  heels  the  crowd  that  pursued.  The 
idle,  and  the  curious,  and  the  ofllicious — ragged  boys, 
ragged  men,  from  stall  and  from  cellar,  from  corner  and 
from  crossing — ^joined  in  that  delicious  chase,  which  runs 
down  young  error  till  it  sinks,  too  often,  at  the  door  of 
the  jail  or  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  But  Philip  slackened 
not  his  pace  ;  he  began  to  distance  his  pursuers.  He  was 
now  in  a  street  which  they  had  not  yet  entered  ;  a  quiet 
street,  with  few,  if  any,  shops.  Before  the  threshold  of 
a  better  kind  of  pubhc  house,  or,  rather,  tavern,  to  judge 
by  its  appearance,  lounged  two  men;  and,  as  Philip  flew 
on,  the  cry  of  "  Stop  him  !"  had  changed,  as  the  shout 
passed  to  new  voices,  into  "  Stop  the  thief  V  That  cry 
yet  howled  in  the  distance.  One  of  the  loungers  seized 
him  ;  Philip,  desperate  and  ferocious,  struck  at  him  with 
all  his  force  ;  but  the  blow  was  scarcely  felt  by  that  Her- 
culean frame. 

"  Pish  !"  said  the  man,  scornfully  ;  "  I  am  no  spy  ;  if 
you  run  from  justice,  I  would  help  you  to  a  signpost." 

Struck  by  the  voice,  Philip  looked  hard  at  the  speaker. 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  Accursed  Son. 

"  Save  me  !  You  remember  me  V  said  the  orphan, 
faintly. 

"  Ah !  I  think  I  do  ;  poor  lad !    Follow  me — this  way !" 

The  stranger  turned  within  the  tavern,  passed  the  hall 
through  a  sort  of  corridor  that  led  into  a  back  yard  which 
opened  upon  a  nest  of  courts  or  passages. 

"  You  arc  safe  for  the  present ;  I  will  take  you  where 
you  can  tell  me  all  at  your  ease.  See !"  As  he  spoke, 
they  emerged  into  an  open  street,  and  the  guide  pointed 
to  a  row  of  hackney-coaches.  "Be  quick  —  get  in. 
C/Oachman,  drive  fast  to — "  Philip  did  not  hear  the  rest 
of  the  direction. 

Our  story  returns  to  Sidney. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  121 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Nous  vous  mettrons  k  couvert 
Repondit  le  pot  de  fer, 
Si  quelque  matiSre  dure 
Vous  menace  d'aventure, 
Entre  deux  je  passerai, 
Et  du  coup  vous  sauverai 

Le  pot  de  terre  en  souflTre  !" — La  Fontainb. 

"  Sidney,  come  here,  sir !  What  have  you  been  at  ? 
You  have  torn  your  frill  into  tatters  !  How  did  you  do 
thisT     Come,  sir,  no  lies." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  just  put  my 
head  out  of  the  window  to  see  the  coach  go  by,  and  a 
nail  caught  me  here." 

"  Why,  you  little  plague  !  you  have  scratched  your- 
self: you  are  always  in  mischief.  What  business  had 
you  to  look  after  the  coach]" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sidney,  hanging  his  head  rue- 
fully. 

"  La,  rnother !"  cried  the  youngest  of  the  cousins,  a 
square-built,  ruddy,  coarse-featured  urchin  about  Sid- 
ney's age,  "  la,  mother,  he  never  sees  a  coach  in  the 
street  when  we  are  at  play  but  he  runs  arter  it." 

"  After,  not  arter,"  said  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  taking  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"  Why  do  you  go  after  the  coaches,  Sidney  ]"  said 
Mrs.  Morton  ;  "  it  is  very  naughty ;  you  will  be  run 
over  some  day." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Sidney,  who,  during  the  whole 
colloquy,  had  been  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"'  Yes,  ma'am,'  and  '  no,  ma'am  :'  you  have  no  more 
manners  than  a  cobbler's  boy." 

"  Don't  tease  the  child,  my  dear — he  is  crying,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  more  authoritatively  than  usual.  "  Come 
here,  my  man !"  and  the  worthy  uncle  took  him  in  his 
lap,  and  held  his  glass  of  brandy  and  water  to  his  lips, 
Sidney,  too  frightened  to  refuse,  sipped  hurriedly,  keep- 
ing his  large  eyes  fixed  on  his  aunt,  as  children  do  when 
they  fear  a  cuff. 

Vol.  I.— L 


122  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

"  You  spoil  the  boy  more  than  you  do  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  greatly  displeased. 

Here  Tom,  the  youngest-born  before  described,  put 
his  mouth  to  his  mother's  ear,  and  whispered,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all,  "  He  runs  arter  the  coach 
'cause  he  thinks  his  ma  may  be  in  it.  Who's  homesick, 
I  should  like  to  know  1     Ba!  baa!" 

The  boy  pointed  his  finger  over  his  mother's  shoul- 
der, and  the  other  children  burst  into  a  loud  giggle. 

"  Leave  the  room,  all  of  you — leave  the  room !"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  rising  angrily  and  stamping  his  foot. 

The  children,  who  were  in  great  awe  of  their  father, 
huddled  and  hustled  each  other  to  the  door ;  but  Tom, 
who  went  last,  bold  in  his  mother's  favour,  popped  his 
head  through  the  doorway,  and  cried,  "  Good-by,  little 
homesick !" 

A  sudden  slap  in  the  face  from  his  father  changed  his 
chuckle  into  a  very  different  kind  of  music,  and  a  loud 
indignant  sob  was  heard  without  for  some  moments 
after  the  door  was  closed. 

"  If  that's  the  way  you  behave  to  your  children,  Mr. 
Morton,  I  vow  you  sha'n't  have  any  more  if  I  can  help 
it.  Don't  come  near  me — don't  touch  me !"  and  Mrs. 
Morton  assumed  the  resentful  air  of  offended  beauty. 

"  Pshaw  !"  growled  the  spouse  ;  and  he  reseated  him- 
self and  resumed  his  pipe.  There  was  a  dead  silence. 
Sidney  crouched  near  his  uncle,  looking  very  pale. 
Mrs.  Morton,  who  was  knitting,  knitted  away  with  the 
excited  energy  of  nervous  irritation. 

"  Ring  the  bell,  Sidney,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  The  boy 
obeyed — the  parlour-maid  entered.  "  Take  Master  Sid- 
ney to  his  room ;  keep  the  boys  away  from  him,  and 
give  him  a  large  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  Martha." 

"  Jam,  indeed  !     Treacle,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

"  Jam,  Martha  !"  repeated  the  uncle,  authoritatively. 

"  Treacle  !"  reiterated  the  aunt. 

"  Jam,  I  say  !" 

"  Treacle,  you  hear :  and,  for  that  matter,  Martha  has 
no  Jam  to  give  !" 

The  husband  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

"  Good-night,  Sidney  ;  there's  a  good  boy,  go  and  kiss 
your  aunt  and  make  your  bow  ;  and,  I  say,  my  lad,  don't 
mind  those  plagues.  I'll  talk  to  them  to-morrow,  that 
I  will ,  no  one  shall  be  unkind  to  you  in  my  house." 

Sidney  muttered  something,  and  went  timidly  up  to 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  123- 

Mrs.  Morton  His  look,  so  gentle  and  subdued  ;  his 
eyes  full  of  tears ;  his  pretty  mouth,  which,  though 
silent,  pleaded  so  eloquently  ;  his  willingness  to  forgive, 
and  his  wish  to  be  forgiven,  might  have  melted  many  a 
heart  harder,  perhaps,  than  Mrs.  Morton's.  But  there 
reigned,  what  is  worse  than  hardness,  prejudice  and 
wounded  vanity — maternal  vanity.  His  contrast  to  her 
own  rough,  coarse  children  grated  on  her,  and  set  the 
teeth  of  her  mind  on  edge. 

"  There,  child,  don't  tread  on  my  gown  ;  you  are  so 
awkward:  say  your  prayers,  and  don't  throw  off  the 
counterpane  !     1  don't  like  slovenly  boys." 

Sidney  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  drooped,  and  van- 
ished. 

"Now,  Mrs.  M.,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  abruptly,  and 
knocking  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  "now,  Mrs.  M., 
one  word  for  all  :  I  have  told  you  that  I  promised  poor 
Catharine  to  be  a  father  to  that  child,  and  it  goes  to  my 
heart  to  see  him  so  snubbed.  Why  you  disUke  him  I 
can't  guess  for  the  life  of  me  ;  I  never  saw  a  sweeter- 
tempered  child." 

"Go  on,  sir — go  on:  make  your  personal  reflections 
on  your  own  lawful  wife.  They  don't  hurt  me — oh,  no, 
not  at  all!  Sweet-tempered,  indeed!  I  suppose  your 
own  children  are  not  sweet-tempered  V 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton; 
"  my  own  children  are  such  as  God  made  them,  and  I 
am  very  well  satisfied." 

"  Indeed,  you  may  be  proud  of  such  a  family  ;  and  to 
think  of  the  pains  I  have  taken  with  them,  and  how  I 
have  saved  you  in  nurses,  and  the  bad  times  I  have 
had  ;  and  now,  to  find  their  noses  put  out  of  joint  by 
that  little  mischief-making  interloper — it  is  too  bad  of 
you,  Mr.  Morton ;  you  will  break  my  heart,  that  you 
will!" 

Mrs.  Morton  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and 
sobbed. 

The  husband  was  moved ;  he  got  up  and  attempted 
to  take  her  hand.  "  Indeed,  Margaret,  I  did  not  mean 
to  vex  you." 

"And  I,  who  have  been  such  a  fa — fai — faithful  wi — 
wi — wife,  and  brought  you  such  a  deal  of  mon — mon — 
money,  and  always  stud — stud — studied  your  interests; 
many's  the  time  when  you  have  been  fast  asleep,  that  I 
have  sat  up  half  the  night  men— men — mending  the 


124  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

house  linen;  and  you  have  not  been  the  same  man, 
Roger,  since  that  boy  came  !" 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  good  man,  quite  overcome, 
and  fairly  taking  her  round  the  waist  and  kissing  her, 
"  no  words  between  us  ;  it  makes  life  quite  unpleasant. 
If  it  pains  you  to  have  Sidney  here,  I  will  put  him  to 
some  school  in  the  town  where  they'll  be  kind  to  him. 
Only,  if  you  would,  Margaret,  for  my  sake — old  girl ! 
come,  now  !  there's  a  darling ! — just  be  more  tender 
with  him.  You  see  he  frets  so  after  his  mother- 
Think  how  little  Tom  would  fret  if  he  was  away  from 
you  !     Poor  little  Tom  !" 

"  La  !  Mr.  Morton,  you  are  such  a  man !  there's  no  re- 
sisting your  ways !  You  know  how  to  come  over  me, 
don't  you  V 

And  Mrs.  Morton  smiled  benignly  as  she  escaped 
from  his  conjugal  arms  and  smoothed  her  cap. 

Peace  thus  restored,  Mr.  Morton  refilled  his  pipe,  and 
the  good  lady,  after  a  pause,  resumed,  in  a  very  mild, 
conciliatory  tone, 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Roger,  that  vexes  me  with 
that  there  child.  He  is  so  deceitful,  and  he  does  tell 
such  fibs !" 

"  Fibs !  That  is  a  very  bad  fauit,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
gravely.     "  That  must  be  corrected." 

"  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  I  saw  him  break  a 
pane  of  glass  in  the  shop;  and,  when  I  taxed  him  with 
it,  he  denied  it ;  and  with  such  a  face !  I  can't  abide 
story-telling." 

"  Let  me  know  the  next  story  he  tells  ;  I'll  cure  him," 
said  Mr.  Morton,  sternly.  "  You  know  how  I  broke  Tom 
of  it.  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child.  And  when  I 
promised  to  be  kind  to  the  boy,  of  course  I  did  not 
mean  that  I  was  not  to  take  care  of  his  morals,  and  see 
that  he  grew  up  an  honest  man.  Tell  truth  and  shame 
the  devil — that's  my  motto." 

"  Spoke  like  yourself,  Roger !"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
with  great  animation.  "  But  you  see  he  has  not  had 
the  advantage  of  such  a  father  as  you.  I  wonder  your 
sister  don't  write  to  you.  Some  people  make  a  great 
fuss  about  their  feelings  ;  but  out  of  sight  out  of  mind." 

"  I  hope  she  is  nut  ill.  Poor  Catharine  !  she  looked 
in  a  very  bad  way  when  she  was  here,"  said  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, and  he  turned  uneasily  to  the  fireplace  and  sighed. 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  supper-tray,  and 
the  conversation  fell  upon  other  topics. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  125 

Mrs.  Roger  Morton's  charge  against  Sidney  was, 
alas  !  too  true.  He  had  acquired  under  that  roof  a  ter- 
rible habit  of  telling  stories.  He  had  never  incurred 
that  vice  with  his  mother,  because  then  and  there  he 
had  nothing  to  fear;  now  he  had  everything  to  fear; 
the  grim  aunt — even  the  quiet,  cold,  austere  uncle — the 
apprentices — the  strange  servants — and,  oh !  more  than 
all,  those  hard-eyed,  loud-laughing  tormentors,  the  boys 
of  his  own  age  !  Naturally  timid,  severity  made  hira 
actually  a  coward  ;  and,  when  the  nerves  tremble,  a  lie 
sounds  as  surely  as,  when  1  vibrate  that  wire,  the  bell 
at  the  end  of  it  will  ring.  Beware  of  the  man  who  has 
been  roughly  treated  as  a  child. 

The  day  after  the  conference  just  narrated,  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, who  was  subject  to  erysipelas,  had  taken  a  little 
cooling  medicine.  He  breakfasted,  therefore,  later  than 
usual — after  the  rest  of  the  family ;  and  at  this  meal — 
pour  lui  soulager — he  ordered  the  luxury  of  a  muffin. 
Now  it  so  chanced  that  he  had  only  finished  half  the 
muffin  and  drank  one  cup  of  tea,  when  he  was  called 
into  the  shop  by  a  customer  of  great  importance:  a 
prosy  old  lady,  who  always  gave-  her  orders  with  re- 
markable precision,  and  who  valued  herself  on  a  char- 
acter for  affability,  which  she  maintained  by  never  buy- 
ing a  penny  riband  without  asking  the  shopman  how  all 
his  family  were,  and  talking  news  about  every  other 
family  in  the  place.  At  the  time  Mr.  Morton  left  the 
parlour,  Sidney  and  Master  Tom  were  therein,  seated 
on  two  stools,  and  casting  up  division  sums  on  their  re- 
spective slates  :  a  point  of  education  to  which  Mr.  Mor- 
ton attended  with  great  care.  As  soon  as  his  father's 
back  was  turned,  Master  Tom's  eyes  wandered  from  the 
slate  to  the  muffin,  as  it  leered  at  him  from  the  slop- 
basin.  Never  did  Pythian  sibyl,  seated  above  the  bub- 
bling spring,  utter  more  oracular  eloquence  to  her  priest 
than  did  that  muffin — at  least  the  parts  of  it  yet  extant 
— utter  to  the  fascinated  senses  of  Master  Tom.  First 
he  sighed;  then  he  moved  round  on  his  stool;  then  he 
got  up  ;  then  he  peered  at  the  muffin  from  a  respectful 
distance ;  then  he  gradually  approached,  and  walked 
round,  and  round,  and  round  it,  his  eyes  getting  bigger 
and  bigger;  then  he  peeped  through  the  glass-door  into 
the  shop,  and  saw  his  father  busily  engaged  with  the  old 
lady  ;  then  he  began  to  calculate  and  philosophize — per- 
haps his  father  had  done  breakfast ;  perhaps  he  would 
L2 


126  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

not  come  back  at  all ;  if  he  came  back,  he  would  not 
miss  one  corner  of  the  muffin  ;  and  if  he  did  miss  it,  why 
should  Tom  be  supposed  to  have  taken  it  ]  As  he  thus 
communed  with  himself,  he  drew  nearer  to  the  fatal 
vortex,  and  at  last,  with  a  desperate  plunge,  he  seized 
the  triangular  temptation : 

"  And  ere  a  man  had  power  to  say  '  Behold,' 
The  jaws  of  Thomas  had  devoured  it  up." 

Sidney,  disturbed  from  his  studies  by  the  agitation  of 
his  companion,  witnessed  this  proceeding  with  great 
and  conscientious  alarm.  "  Oh,  Tom  !"  said  he,  "  what 
will  your  papa  say  V 

"  Look  at  that !"  said  Tom,  putting  his  fist  under  Sid- 
ney's reluctant  nose.  "If  father  misses  it,  you'll  say 
the  cat  took  it.  If  you  don't,  my  eye  !  what  a  wapping 
I'll  give  you!"  , 

Here  Mr.  Morton's  voice  was  heard  wishing  the  lady 
"Good-morning!"  and  Master  Tom,  thinking  it  better 
to  leave  the  credit  of  the  invention  solely  to  Sidney, 
whispered,  "  Say  I'm  gone  up  stairs  for  my  pocket- 
hanker,"  and  hastily  absconded. 

Mr.  Morton,  already  in  a  very  bad  humour,  partly  at 
the  effects  of  the  cooling  medicine,  partly  at  the  suspen- 
sion of  his  breakfast,  stalked  into  the  parlour.  His  tea 
— the  second  cup  already  poured  out — was  cold.  He 
turned  towards  the  muffin,  and  missed  the  lost  piece  at 
a  glance. 

"Who  has  been  at  my  muffin  1"  said  he,  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  Sidney  like  the  voice  he  had  already 
supposed  an  ogre  to  possess.  "  Have  you.  Master  Sid- 
ney?" 

"  N — n — no,  sir  ;  indeed,  sir  !" 
"  Then  Tom  has.     Where  is  he  V 
"  Gone  up  stairs  for  his  handkerchief,  sir." 
"  Did  he  take  my  muffin  1     Speak  the  truth !" 
"No,  sir;  it  was  the — ic  was  the — the  cat,  sir!" 
"  Oh  you  wicked,  wicked  boy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Morton, 
who  had  followed    her  husband   into    the   shop;  "the 
cat  kittened  last  night,  and  is  locked  up  in  the  coal- 
cellar!" 

"  Come  here,  Master  Sidney !  No !  first  go  down, 
Margaret,  and  see  if  the  cat  is  in  the  cellar :  it  might 
have  got  out,  Mrs.  M.,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  just  even  in 
his  wrath. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  127 

Mrs.  Morton  went,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence,  ex- 
cept, indeed,  in  Sidney's  heart,  which  beat  louder  than  a 
clock,  ticks.  Mr.  Morton,  meanwhile,  went  to  a  little 
cupboard  ;  while  still  liiere,  Mrs.  Morton  returned :  the 
cat  was  in  the  cellar — the  key  turned  on  her — in  no 
mood  to  eat  muffins,  poor  thing ! — she  would  not  evea 
lap  her  milk  !  Like  her  mistress,  she  had  had  a  very  bad 
time ! 

"  Now  come  here,  sir  V  said  Mr.  Morton,  withdraw- 
ing himself  from  the  cupboard,  with  a  small  horsewhip 
in  his  hand.  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  speak  the  truth 
in  future !     Confess  that  you  have  told  a  lie  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  was  a  lie  !  Pray — pray  forgive  me  ;  but 
Tom  made  me  !" 

"  What !  when  poor  Tom  is  up  stairs  ^  Worse  and 
worse !"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  lifting  up  her  hands  and 
eyes.     "  What  a  viper !" 

"  For  shame,  boy,  for  shame !  Take  that — and  that 
— and  that — " 

Writhing,  shrinking,  still  more  terrified  than  hurt,  the 
poor  child  cowered  beneath  the  lash. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !"  he  cried  at  last,  "  oh  why — why 
did  you  leave  me  ?" 

At  these  words  Mr.  Morton  stayed  his  hand — the  whip 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Yet  it  is  all  for  the  boy's  good,"  he  muttered. 
"  There,  child,  I  hope  this  is  the  last  time.  There,  you 
are  not  much  hurt.     Zounds,  don't  cry  so  !" 

"  He  will  alarm  the  whole  street,"  said  Mrs.  Morton; 
"  I  never  see  such  a  child  !  Here,  take  this  parcel  to 
Mrs.  Birnie's — you  know  the  house — only  next  street, 
and  dry  your  eyes  before  you  get  there.  Don't  go 
through  the  shop,  this  way,  out." 

She  pushed  the  child,  still  sobbing  with  a  vehemence 
that  she  could  not  comprehend,  through  the  private 
passage  into  the  street,  and  returned  to  her  husband. 

"You  are  convinced  now,  Mr.  M.  !" 

"  Pshaw !  ma'am,  don't  talk.  But,  to  be  sure,  that's 
how  I  cured  Tom  of  fibbing.  The  tea's  as  cold  as  a 
stone  I" 


128  NIGHt    AND    MORNING. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"  Le  bien  nous  le  faisons :  le  mal  c'est  la  Fortune, 
On  a  toujours  raison,  le  Destin  toujours  tort." 

La  Fontaine. 

Upon  the  early  morning  of  the  day  commemorated 
by  the  historical  events  of  our  last  chapter,  two  men 
were  deposited  by  a  branch  coach  at  the  inn  of  a  ham- 
let about  ten  miles  distant  from  the  town  in  which  Mr. 
Roger  Morton  resided.  Though  the  hamlet  was  small, 
the  inn  was  large,  for  it  was  placed  close  by  a  huge  fin- 
ger-post that  pointed  to  three  great  roads :  one  led  to 
the  town  before  mentioned ;  another  to  the  heart  of  a 
manufacturing  district ;  and  a  third  to  a  populous  sea- 
port. The  weather  was  fine,  and  the  two  travellers  or- 
dered breakfast  to  be  taken  into  an  arbour  in  the  gar- 
den, as  well  as  the  basins  and  towels  necessary  for  ab- 
lution. The  elder  of  the  travellers- appeared  to  be  un- 
equivocally foreign;  you  would  have  guessed  him  at 
once  for  a  German.  He  wore  what  was  then  very  un- 
common in  this  country,  a  loose  brown  linen  blouse, 
buttoned  to  the  chin,  with  a  leathern  belt,  into  which 
were  stuck  a  German  meerschaum  and  a  tobacco- 
pouch.  He  had  very  long  flaxen  hair,  false  or  real,  that 
streamed  half  way  down  his  back,  large  light  mustach- 
es, and  a  rough,  sunburned  complexion,  which  made  the 
fairness  of  the  hair  more  remarkable.  He  wore  an 
enormous  pair  of  green  spectacles,  and  complained 
much,  in  broken  English,  of  the  weakness  of  his  eyes. 
All  about  him,  even  to  the  smallest  minutia?,  indicated 
the  German  ;  not  only  the  large,  muscular  frame,  the 
broad  feet,  and  vast  though  well-shaped  hands,  but  the 
brooch — evidently  purchased  of  a  Jew  in  some  great 
fair — stuck  ostentatiously  and  superfluously  into  his 
stock ;  the  quaint,  droll-looking  carpet-bag,  which  he 
refused  to  trust  to  the  boots  ;  and  the  great,  massive, 
dingy  ring  which  he  wore  on  his  fore-finger.  The  oth- 
er was  a  slender,  remarkably  upright  and  sinewy  youth, 
in  a  blue  frock,  over  which  was  tin-own  a  large  cloak; 
a  travelling  cap,  with  a  shade  that  concealed  all  of  the 
upper  part  of  his  face  except  a  dark,  quick  eye  of  un- 


NIGHT    AND   MORNINO.  129 

common  fire,  and  a  shawl  handkerchief,  which  was 
equally  useful  in  conceahng  the  lower  part  of  the  coun- 
tenance. On  descending  from  the  coach,  the  German, 
with  some  difficulty,  made  the  hostler  understand  that 
he  wanted  a  post-chaise  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  and 
then,  without  entering  the  house,  he  and  his  friend 
strolled  to  the  arbour.  While  the  maid-servant  was 
covering  the  table  with  bread,  butter,  tea,  eggs,  and  a 
huge  round  of  beef,  the  German  was  busy  in  washing 
his  hands,  and  talking  in  his  national  tongue  to  the 
young  man,  who  returned  no  answer.  But,  as  soon  as 
the  servant  had  completed  her  operations,  the  foreigner 
turned  round,  and,  observing  her  eyes  fixed  on  his 
brooch  with  much  female  admiration,  he  made  one 
stride  to  her. 

"  Der  Teufel,  mein  goot  madchen,  but  you  are  von 
var — pretty — vat  you  call  it  V  and  he  gave  her,  as  he 
spoke,  so  hearty  a  smack,  that  the  girl  was  more  flus- 
tered than  flattered  by  the  courtesy. 

"  Keep  yourself  to  yourself,  sir !"  said  she,  very  tart- 
ly— for  chambermaids  never  like  to  be  kissed  by  mid- 
dle-aged gentlemen  when  a  younger  one  is  by  :  where- 
upon the  German  replied  by  a  pinch — it  is  immaterial 
to  state  the  exact  spot  to  which  that  delicate  caress 
was  directed.  But  this  last  offence  was  so  inexpiable, 
that  the  "  madchen"  bounced  off  with  a  face  of  scarlet, 
and  a  "  Sir,  you  are  no  gentleman — that's  what  you 
arn't !"  The  German  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  arbour, 
and  followed  her  with  a  loud  laugh  ;  then,  drawing  him- 
self in  again,  he  said,  in  quite  another  accent  and  in  ex- 
cellent English,  "  There,  Master  Philip,  we  have  got  rid 
of  the  girl  for  the  rest  of  the  morning,  and  that's  ex- 
actly what  I  wanted  to  do  :  women's  wits  are  confound- 
edly sharp.  Well,  did  1  not  tell  you  right .  we  have  baf- 
fled all  the  bloodhounds '." 

"  And  here,  then,  Gawtrey,  we  are  to  part,"  said 
Philip,  mournfully. 

"  I  wish  you  would  think  better  of  it,  my  boy,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Gawtrey,  breaking  an  egg;  "how  can  you 
shift  for  yourself — no  kith  nor  kin — not  even  that  impor- 
tant machine  for  giving  advice  called  a  friend — no,  not 
a  friend,  when  I  am  gone  ^  I  foresee  how  it  must  end. 
[D —  it,  salt  butter,  by  Jove  !"] 

"  If  I  were  alone  in  the  world,  as  I  have  told  you 
again  and  again,  perhaps  I  might  pin  ray  fate  to  yours. 
But  ray  bjother !" 


130  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  There  it  is :  always  wrong  when  we  act  from  our 
feeUngs.  My  whole  life,  which  some  day  or  other  I 
will  tell  you,  proves  that.  Your  brother — bah !  Is  he 
not  very  well  off  with  his  own  uncle  and  aunt  ]  Plenty 
to  eat  and  drink,  I  dare  say.  Come,  man,  you  must  be 
as  hungry  as  a  hawk — a  slice  of  the  beef.  Let  well 
alone,  and  shift  for  yourself.  What  good  can  you  do 
your  brother!" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  must  see  him ;  I  have  sworn  it." 

"  Well,  go  and  see  him,  and  then  strike  across  the 
country  to  me.    I  will  wait  a  day  for  you — there,  now !" 

"  But  tell  me  first,"  said  Philip,  very  earnestly,  and 
fixing  his  dark  eyes  on  his  companion,  "  tell  me — yes, 
I  must  speak  frankly — tell  me,  you  who  would  link  my 
fortune  with  your  own — tell  me  what  and  who  are 
you  V 

Gawtrey  looked  up. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  V  said  he,  dryly. 

"  I  fear  to  suppose  anything,  lest  I  wrong  you :  but 
the  strange  place  to  which  you  took  me  the  evening  on 
which  you  saved  me  from  pursuit — the  persons  I  met 
there — " 

"  Well-dressed,  and  very  civil  to  you  V 

"  True  ;  but  with  a  certain  wild  looseness  in  their 
talk  that — But  I  have  no  right  to  judge  others  by  mere 
appearance.  Nor  is  it  this  that  has  made  me  anxious, 
and,  if  you  will,  suspicious." 

"What  thenr' 

"  Your  dress — your  disguise." 

"Disguised  yourself!  ha!  ha!  Behold  the  world's 
charity !  You  fly  from  some  danger,  some  pursuit, 
disguised — you,  who  hold  yourself  guiltless  :  I  do  the 
same,  and  you  hold  me  criminal — a  robber,  perhaps — a 
murderer,  it  may  be  !  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am :  I  am 
a  son  of  Fortune — an  adventurer ;  I  live  by  my  wits — 
so  do  poets  and  lawyers,  and  all  the  charlatans  of  the 
world ;  I  am  a  charlatan — a  chameleon.  '  Each  man  in 
his  time  plays  many  parts ;'  I  play  any  part  in  which 
the  Manager  of  the  Vast  Boards — Money — promises  me 
a  livelihood.     Are  you  satisfied  T' 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  the  boy,  sadly,  "  when  I  know 
more  of  the  world,  I  shall  understand  you  better. 
Strange,  strange,  that  you  out  of  all  men  should  have 
been  kind  to  me  in  distress  !" 

"  Not  at  all  strange.    Ask  the  beggar  whom  he  get? 


,  NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  131 

the  most  pence  from  :  the  fine  lady  in  her  carriage,  the 
beau  smelling  of  Eau  de  Cologne  ?  Pish !  the  people 
nearest  to  being  beggars  themselves  keep  the  beggar 
alive.  You  were  friendless,  and  the  man  who  has  all 
earth  for  a  foe  befriends  you.  It  is  the  w^ay  of  the 
world,  sir — the  way  of  the  world.  Come,  eat  while 
you  can,  this  time  next  year  you  may  have  no  beef  to 
your  bread." 

Thus  masticating  and  moralizing  at  the  same  time, 
Mr.  Gawtrey  finished  a  breakfast  that  would  have  as- 
tonished the  whole  Corporation  of  London  ;  and  then, 
taking  out  a  large  old  watch  with  an  enamelled  back — 
doubtless  more  German  than  its  master — he  said,  as  he 
lifted  up  his  carpet-bag,  "I  must  be  off — tempus fugit, 
and  I  must  arrive  just  in  time  to  nick  the  vessels.  Shall 
get  to  Ostend  or  Rotterdam  safe  and  snug,  thence  to 
Paris.  How  my  pretty  Fan  will  have  grown  !  Ah,  you 
don't  know  Fan;  make  you  a  nice  little  wife  one  of 
these  days !  Cheer  up,  man,  we  shall  meet  again.  Be 
sure  of  it ;  and,  hark  ye,  that  strange  place,  as  you  call 
it,  where  I  took  you — you  can  find  it  again  1" 

"  Not  I." 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  address.  Whenever  you  want 
me,  go  there ;  ask  to  see  Mr.  Gregg — old  fellow  with 
one  eye,  you  recollect — shake  him  by  the  hand  just  so 
— you  catch  the  trick — practise  it  again.  No,  the  fore- 
finger thus — that's  right.  Say  '  blater,'  no  more — '  bia- 
ter' — stay,  I  will  write  it  down  for  you — and  then  ask 
for  William  Gawtrey's  direction.  He  will  give  it  you 
at  once,  without  questions,  these  signs  understood ; 
and,  if  you  want  money  for  your  passage,  he  will  give 
you  that  also,  with  advice  into  the  bargain.  Always  a 
warm  welcome  with  me.  And  so  take  care  of  your- 
self, and  good-by.     I  see  my  chaise  is  at  the  door." 

As  he  spoke,  Gawtrey  siiook  the  young  man's  hand 
with  cordial  vigour,  and  strode  off  to  his  chaise,  mut- 
tering, "  Money  well  laid  out — fee  money ;  1  shall  have 
him,  and.  Gad,  1  like  him — poor  devil !" 


132  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  He  is  a  cunning  coachman  that  can  turn  well  in  a  narrow  room." 
"Old  Play  :  from  Lamb's  Specimens. 

"  Here  are  two  pilgrims, 
And  neither  knows  one  footstep  of  the  way." 

Heywood's  Duchess  of  Suffolk.     Ibid. 

The  chaise  had  scarce  driven  from  the  inn  door,  when 
a  coach  stopped  to  change  horses  on  its  last  stage  to 
the  town  to  which  Phihp  was  bound.  The  name  of  the 
destination,  in  gilt  letters  on  the  coach-door,  caught  his 
eye  as  he  walked  from  the  arbour  towards  the  road, 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  seated  as  the  fourth  pas- 
senger in  the  "  Nelson  Slow  and  Sure."  From  under 
the  shade  of  his  cap  he  darted  that  quick,  quiet  glance 
which  a  man  who  hunts  or  is  hunted — in  other  words, 
who  observes  or  shuas — soon  acquires.  At  his  left 
hand  sat  a  young  woman  in  a  cloak  lined  with  yellow  ; 
she  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  and  pinned  it  to  the  roof 
of  the  coach,  and  looked  fresh  and  pretty  in  a  silk  hand- 
kerchief which  she  had  tied  round  her  head,  probably 
to  serve  as  a  nightcap  during  the  drowsy  length  of  the 
journey.  Opposite  to  her  was  a  middle-aged  man  of 
pale  complexion,  and  a  grave,  pensive,  studious  expres- 
sion of  face ;  and  vis-a-vis  to  Philip  sat  an  overdressed, 
showy,  very  good-looking  man  of  about  two  or  three- 
and-forty.  This  gentleman  wore  auburn  whiskers, 
which  met  at  the  chin ;  a  foraging  cap,  with  a  gold  tas- 
sel ;  a  velvet  waistcoat,  across  which,  in  various  folds, 
hung  a  golden  chain,  at  the  end  of  which  dangled  an 
eyeglass,  that  from  lime  to  time  he  screwed,  as  it  were, 
into  his  right  eye  ;  he  wore,  also,  a  blue  silk  stock,  with 
a  frill  much  crumpled  ;  dirty  kid  gloves;  and  over  his 
lap  lay  a  cloak  lined  with  red  silk.  As  Philip  glanced 
towards  tliis  personage,  the  latter  fixed  his  glass  also  at 
him  with  a  scrutinizing  stare,  which  drew  fire  from 
Philip's  dark  eyes.  The  man  dropped  his  glass,  and 
said,  in  a  half  provincial,  half  haw-haio  tone,  like  the 
stage-exquisite  of  a  minor  theatre,  "  Pawdon  me,  and 
split  legs!"  therewith  stretching  himself  between  Phil- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  133 

ip's  limbs,  in  the  approved  fashion  of  inside  passengers ! 
A  young  man  in  a  white  greatcoat  now  came  to  the 
door  with  a  glass  of  warm  sherry  and  water. 

"  You  must  take  this — you  must  now ;  it  will  keep 
the  cold  out"  (the  day  was  broiling),  said  he  to  the 
young  woman. 

"  Gracious  me  !"  was  the  answer,  "  but  I  never  drink 
wine  of  a  morning,  James  ;  it  will  get  into  my  head." 

"  To  oblige  me!"  said  the  young  man,  sentimentally ; 
whereupon  the  young  lady  took  the  glass,  and,  looking 
very  kindly  at  her  Ganymede,  said,  "  Your  health !" 
and  sipped,  and  made  a  wry  face ;  then  she  looked  at 
the  passengers,  tittered,  and  said,  "  I  can't  bear  wine !" 
and  so,  very  slowly  and  daintily,  supped  up  the  rest. 
A  silent  and  expressive  squeeze  of  the  hand,  on  return- 
ing the  glass,  rewarded  the  young  man,  and  proved  the 
salutary  effect  of  his  prescription. 

"  All  right !"  cried  the  coachman  :  the  hostler  twitch- 
ed the  cloths  from  the  leaders,  and  away  went  the 
"  Nelson  Slow  and  Sure,"  with  as  much  pretension  as 
if  it  had  meant  to  do  the  ten  miles  in  an  hour.  The 
pale  gentleman  took  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  little 
box  containing  gum  Arabic,  and,  having  inserted  a 
couple  of  morsels  between  his  lips,  he  next  drew  forth 
a  little  thin  volume,  which,  from  the  manner  the  lines 
were  printed,  was  evidently  devoted  to  poetry. 

The  smart  gentleman,  who,  since  the  episode  of  the 
sherry  and  water,  had  kept  his  glass  fixed  upon  the 
young  lady,  now  said,  with  a  genteel  smirk,  "  That 
young  gentleman  seems  very  auttentive,  miss  !" 

"  He  is  a  very  good  young  man,  sir,  and  takes  great 
care  of  me." 

"  Not  your  brother,  miss,  eh  T' 

"  La,  sir !  why  not  ?" 

"  No  faumily  likeness — noice-looking  fellow  enough  ! 
But  your  oiyes  and  mouth — ah,  miss !" 

Miss  turned  away  her  head,  and  uttered,  with  pert  vi- 
vacity, 

"  I  never  likes  compliments,  sir !  But  the  young 
man  is  not  my  brother." 

"A  sweetheart,  eh]"  Oh  fy,  miss!  Haw!  haw!" 
and  the  auburn-whiskered  Adonis  poked  Philip  in  the 
knee  with  one  hand,  and  the  pale  gentleman  in  the  ribs 
with  the  other.     The  latter  looked  up,  and  reproachful- 

VoL.  I.— M 


134  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

ly  ;  the  former  drew  in  his  legs,  and  uttered  an  angry 
ejaculation. 

"  Well,  sir,  there  is  no  harm  in  a  sweetheart,  is 
there  ?" 

"  None  in  the  least,  ma'am ;  I  advoise  you  to  double 
the  dose.  We  often  hear  of  two  strings  to  a  bow, 
Daun't  you  think  it  would  be  noicer  to  have  two  beaux 
to  your  string  V 

As  he  thus  wittily  expressed  himself,  the  gentleman 
took  off  his  cap,  and  thrust  his  fingers  through  a  very 
curling  and  comely  head  of  hair ;  the  young  lady  look- 
ed at  him  with  evident  coquetry,  and  said,  "  How  you 
do  run  on,  you  gentlemen  !" 

"  I  may  well  run  on,  miss,  as  long  as  I  run  aufler 
you,"  was  the  gallant  reply. 

Here  the  pale  gentleman,  evidently  annoyed  by  being 
talked  across,  shut  his  book  up  and  looked  round.  His 
eye  rested  on  Philip,  who,  whether  from  the  heat  of  the 
day  or  from  the  forgetfulness  of  thought,  had  pushed 
his  cap  from  his  brows ;  and  the  gentleman,  after  sta- 
ring at  him  for  a  few  moments  with  great  earnestness, 
sighed  so  heavily  that  it  attracted  the  notice  of  all  the 
passengers. 

"  Are  you  unwell,  sir !"  asked  the  young  lady,  com^ 
passionately. 

"  A  little  pain  in  my  side — nothing  more  !" 

"  Chaunge  plauces  with  me,  sir,"  cried  the  Lothario, 
officiously.  "  Now  do  !"  The  pale  gentleman,  after  a 
short  hesitation  and  a  bashful  excuse,  accepted  the 
proposal.  In  a  few  moments  the  young  lady  and  the 
beau  were  in  deep  and  whispered  conversation,  their 
heads  turned  towards  the  window.  The  pale  gentle- 
man continued  to  gaze  at  Philip,  till  the  latter,  per- 
ceiving the  notice  he  excited,  coloured  and  replaced  his 
cap  over  his  face. 

"Are  you  going  to  N V  asked  the  gentleman,  in 

a  gentle,  timid  voice. 

".Yes!" 

"  Is  it  the  first  time  you  have  ever  been  there  V 

"  Sir  !"  returned  Philip,  in  a  voice  that  spoke  surprise 
and  distaste  at  his  neighbour's  curiosity. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  shrinking  back ; 
"  but  you  remind  me  of — of — a  family  1  once  knew  in 
the  town.     Do  you  know  the — the  xMortons  V 

One  in  Philip's  situation,  with,  as  he  supposed,  the 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  135 

officers  of  justice  in  his  track  (for  Gawtrey,  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  rather  encouraged  than  allayed  his  fears), 
might  well  be  suspicious.  He  replied,  therefore,  short- 
ly, "  I  am  quite  a  stranger  to  the  town,"  and  ensconced 
himself  in  the  corner  as  if  to  take  a  nap.  Alas !  that 
answer  was  one  of  the  many  obstacles  he  was  doomed 
to  build  up  between  himself  and  a  fairer  fate. 

The  gentleman  sighed  again,  and  never  spoke  more 
to  the  end  of  the  journey.  When  the  coach  halted  at 
the  inn — th^  same  inn  which  had  before  given  its  shel- 
ter to  poor  Catharme — the  young  man  in  the  white  coat 
opened  the  door,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  young  lady. 

"  Do  you  make  any  stay  here,  sir !"  said  she  to  the 
beau,  as  she  unpinned  her  bonnet  from  the  roof. 

"  Perhaps  so  :  1  am  waiting  for  my  phe-aton,  which 
my  faellow  is  to  bring  down — tanking  a  little  tour." 

"  We  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the 
young  lady,  on  whom  the  phe-aton  completed  the  effect 
produced  by  the  gentleman's  previous  gallantries  ;  and 
with  that  she  dropped  a  very  neat  card,  on  which  was 
printed  "  Wavers  and  Snow,  Staymakers,  High-street,'* 
into  his  hand. 

The  beau  put  it  gracefully  into  his  pocket,  leaped 
from  the  coach,  nudged  aside  his  rival  of  the  white 
coat,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  lady,  who  leaned  on  it 
affectionately  as  she  descended. 

"  This  gentleman  has  been  so  perlite  to  me,  James," 
said  she.  James  touched  his  hat,  the  beau  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder  :  "  Ah !  you  are  not  a  happy  man 
— are  you  T  Oh  no,  not  at  all  a  happy  man  !  Good- 
day  to  you!     Guard,  that  hatbox  is  mine." 

While  Philip  was  paying  the  coachman,  the  beau 
passed  and  whispered  him, 

"  Recollect  old  Gregg — anything  on  the  lay  here  1 — 
don't  spoil  my  sport  if  we  meet!"  and  bustled  off  into 
the  inn,  whistling  "  God  save  the  King !" 

Philip  started,  then  tried  to  bring  to  mind  the  faces 
which  he  had  seen  at  the  "  strange  place,"  and  thought 
he  recalled  the  features  of  his  fellow-traveller.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  seek  to  renew  the  acquaintance,  but  in- 
quired the  way  to  Mr.  Morton's  house,  and  thither  he 
now  proceeded. 

He  was  directed,  as  a  short  cut,  down  one  of  those  nar- 
row passages  at  the  entrance  of  which  posts  are  placed, 
as  an  indication  that  they  are  appropriated  solely  to  foot« 


136  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

passengers.  A  dead  white  wall,  which  screened  the 
garden  of  the  physician  of  the  place,  ran  on  one  side ; 
a  high  fence  to  a  nursery-ground  was  on  the  other  ;  the 
passage  was  lonely,  for  it  was  now  the  hour  when  few 
persons  walk  either  for  business  or  pleasure  in  a  pro- 
vincial town,  and  no  sound  was  heard  save  the  fall  of 
his  own  step  on  the  broad  flagstones.  At  the  end  of  the 
passage  in  the  main  street  to  which  it  led,  he  saw  al- 
ready the  large,  smart,  showy  shop,  with  the  hot  sun 
shining  full  on  tiie  gilt  letters  that  conveyed  to  the  eyes 
of  the  customer  the  respectable  name  of  "  Morton," 
when,  suddenly,  the  silence  was  broken  by  choked  and 
painful  sobs.  He  turned,  and  beneath  a  compo  portico, 
jutting  from  the  wall,  which  adorned  the  physician's 
door,  he  saw  a  fihild  seated  on  the  stone  steps  weeping 
bitterly  :  a  thrill  shot  through  Philip's  heart  !  Did  he 
recognise,  disguised  as  it  was  by  pain  and  sorrow, 
that  voice  1  He  paused,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's 
shoulder  :  "  Oh,  don't — don't — pray  don't — I  am  going, 
I  am,  indeed !"  cried  the  child,  quailing,  and  still  keep- 
ing his  hands  clasped  before  his  face, 

"  Sidney !"  said  Philip.  The  boy  started  to  his  feet, 
uttered  a  cry  of  rapturous  joy,  and  fell  upon  his  broth- 
er's breast. 

"  Oh,  Philip  !  dear,  dear  Philip !  you  are  come  to  take 
me  away  back  to  my  own,  own  mamma ;  I  will  be  so 
good !  1  will  never  tease  her  again — never,  never  !  I 
have  been  so  wretched !" 

"  Sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  they  have  done  to  you," 
said  Philip,  checking  the  rising  heart  that  heaved  at  his 
mother's  name. 

So  there  they  sat,  on  the  cold  stone  under  the  stran- 
ger's porch,  these  two  orphans :  Philip's  arm  round  his 
brother's  waist,  Sidney  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  im- 
parting to  him— perhaps  with  pardonable  exaggeration 
— all  the  sufferings  he  had  gone  through ;  and,  when  he 
came  to  that  morning's  chastisement,  and  showed  the 
wale  across  the  little  hands  which  he  had  vainly  held 
up  in  supplication,  Philip's  passion  shook  him  from  limb 
to  limb.  His  impulse  was  to  march  straight  into  Mr. 
Morton's  shop  and  gripe  him  by  the  throat ;  and  the  in- 
dignation he  betrayed  encouraged  Sidney  to  colour  yet 
more  highly  the  tale  of  his  wrongs  and  pain. 

When  he  had  done,  and,  clinging  tightly  to  his  broth- 
er's broad  chest,  said, 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  137 

"  But  never  mind,  Philip ;  now  we  will  go  home  to 
mamma." 

Philip  replied, 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  brother.  We  cannot  go 
back  to  my  mother.  I  will  tell  you  why,  later.  We 
are  alone  in  the  world — we  two !  If  you  will  come 
with  me — God  help  you!  for  you  will  have  many  hard- 
ships ;  we  shall  have  to  work  and  drudge,  and  you  may 
be  cold,  and  hungry,  and  tired  very  often,  Sidney — very, 
very  often !  But  you  know  that,  long  ago,  when  I  was 
so  passionate,  I  never  was  knowingly  unkind  to  you  ; 
and  1  declare  now  that  I  would  bite  out  my  tongue 
rather  than  it  should  say  a  harsh  word  to  you.  That  is 
all  I  can  promise.  Think  well.  Will  you  never  miss 
all  the  comforts  you  have  nowl" 

"  Comforts !"  repeated  Sidney,  ruefully,  and  looking 
at  the  wale  over  his  hand.  "  Oh !  let — let*— let  me  go 
with  you :  I  shall  die  if  1  stay  here.  I  shall  indeed — 
indeed!" 

"  Hush !"  said  Philip ;  for  at  that  moment  a  step  was 
heard,  and  the  pale  gentleman  walked  slowly  down  the 
passage,  and  started,  and  turned  his  head  wistfully  as 
he  looked  at  the  boys. 

When  he  was  gone,  Philip  rose. 

"  It  is  settled,  then,"  said  he,  firmly.  "  Come  with 
me  at  once.  You  shall  return  to  their  roof  no  more- 
Come,  quick :  we  shall  have  many  miles  to  go  to-night." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  He  comes — 
Yet  careless  what  he  brinps  ;  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn  ; 
And,  having^  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on — 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy." 

CowpKR  ;  Detcription  of  the  Postman. 

The  pale  gentleman  entered  Mr.  Morton's  shop ;  and, 
looking  round  him,  spied  the  worthy  trader  showing 
shawls  to  a  young  lady  just  married.  He  seated  him- 
self on  a  stool,  and  said  to  the  bowing  foreman, 

"  1  Nvill  wait  till  Mr.  Morton  is  disengaged." 
M2 


138  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

The  young  lady,  having  closely  examined  seven 
shawls,  and  declared  they  were  beautiful,  said  "  she 
would  tiiink  of  it,"  and  walked  away.  Mr.  Morion  now 
approached  the  stranger. 

"  Mr.  Morton,"  said  the  pale  gentleman,  "  you  are 
very  little  altered.     You  do  not  recollect  me  ]" 

"  Bless  me,  Mr.  Spencer !  is  it  really  you  1  Well, 
what  a  time  since  we  met !  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. 
And  what  brings  you  to  N 1     Business]" 

"  Yes,  business.     Let  us  go  within." 

Mr.  Morton  led  the  way  to  the  parlour,  where  Master 
Tom,  reperched  on  the  stool,  was  rapidly  digesting  the 
plundered  muffin.  Mr.  Morton  dismissed  him  to  play, 
and  the  pale  gentleman  took  a  chair. 

"  Mr.  Morton,"  said  he,  glancing  over  his  dress,  "  you 
see  I  am  in  mourning.  It  is  for  your  sister.  I  never 
got  the  better  of  that  early  attachment — never." 

"  My  sister !  Good  Heavens  !"  said  Mr.  Morton,  turn- 
ing very  pale;  "is  she  dead? — poor  Catharine! — and 
I  not.  know  of  it !     When  did  she  die  V 

"  Not  many  days  since  ;  and — and — "  said  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, greatly  aiTected,  "  1  fear  in  want.  1  had  been 
abroad  for  some  months  ;  on  my  return  last  week,  look- 
ing over  the  newspapers  (for  1  always  order  them  to 
be  filed),  I  read  the  short  account  of  her  lawsuit  against 
Mr.  Beaufort  some  time  back.  I  resolved  to  find  her 
out.  I  did  so  through  the  solicitor  she  employed  :  it 
was  too  late  ;  I  arrived  at  her  lodgings  two  days  after 
her  corpse  had  left  it  for  the  grave.  I  then  determined 
to  visit  poor  Catharine's  brother,  and  learn  if  anything 
could  be  done  for  the  children  she  had  left  behind." 

•'  She  left  but  two.  Philip,  the  elder,  is  very  com- 
fortably placed  at  R • ;  the  youngest  has  his  home 

vi^ith  me ;  and  Mrs.  Morton  is  a  moth — that  is  to  say, 
she  takes  great  pains  with  him.  Ehem  !  and  my  poor, 
poor  sister!" 

"  Is  he  like  his  mother  V 

"  Very  much,  when  she  was  young — poor,  dear  Cath- 
arine!" 

"  What  age  is  he?" 

"  About  ten,  perhaps — I  don't  know  exactly — much 
younger  than  the  other.     And  so  she's  dead  !" 

"  jAIr.  Morton,  I  am  an  old  bachelor"  (here  a  sickly 
smile  crossed  Mr.  Spencer's  face)  ;  "  a  small  portion  of 
my  fortune  is  settled,  it  is  true,  on  my  relations ;  but  the 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  IBQ 

rest  is  mine,  and  I  live  within  my  income.  The  elder 
one  is  probably  old  enough  to  begin  to  take  care  of  him- 
self. But  the  younger — perhaps  you  have  a  family  of 
your  own,  and  can  spare  him  .?" 

Mr.  Morton  hesitated,  and  twitched  up  his  trowsers. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  this  is  very  kind  in  you.  1  don't 
know — we'll  see.  The  boy  is  out  now;  come  and  dine 
with  us  at  two — pot-luck.  Well,  so  she  is  no  more! — 
heighho  !     Meanwhile,  I'll  talk  it  over  with  Mrs.  M." 

"  I  will  be  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  rising. 

"Ah!"  sighed  Mr.  Morton,  "if  Catharine  had  but 
married  you,  she  would  have  been  a  happy  woman." 

"  I  would  have  tried  to  make  her  so,"  said  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, as  he  turned  away  his  face  and  took  his  departure. 

Two  o'clock  came,  but  no  Sidney.  They  had  sent  to 
the  place  whither  he  had  been  despatched  :  he  had  never 
arrived  there.  Mr.  Morton  grew  alarmed  ;  and,  when 
Mr.  Spencer  came  to  dinner,  his  host  was  gone  in  search 
of  the  truant.  He  did  not  return  till  three.  Doomed 
that  day  to  be  belated  both  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  this 
decided  him  to  part  with  Sidney  whenever  he  should  be 
found.  Mrs.  Morton  was  persuaded  that  the  child  only 
sulked,  and  would  come  back  fast  enough  when  he  was 
hungry.  Mr.  Spencer  tried  to  believe  her,  and  ate  his 
mutton,  which  was  burned  to  a  cinder;  but  when  five, 
six,  seven  o'clock  came,  and  the  boy  was  still  missing, 
even  Mrs.  Morton  agreed  that  it  was  high  time  to  insti- 
tute a  regular  search.  The  whole  family  set  off  differ- 
ent ways.  It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they  were  reuni- 
ted ;  and  then,  all  the  news  picked  up  was,  that  a  boy 
answering  Sidney's  description  had  been  seen  with  a 
young  man  in  three  several  parts  of  the  town ;  the  last 
time  at  the  outskirts,  on  the  high  road  towards  the  man- 
ufacturing districts.  These  tidings  so  far  relieved  Mr. 
Morton's  mind  that  he  dismissed  the  chilling  fear  that 
had  crept  there — that  Sidney  might  have  drowned  him- 
self. Boys  will  drown  themselves  sometimes !  Tho 
description  of  the  young  man  coincided  so  remarkably 
with  the  fellow-passenger  of  Mr.  Spencer,  that  he  did 
not  doubt  it  was  the  same  ;  the  more  so  when  he  recol- 
lected having  seen  him  with  a  fair-haired  child  under 
the  portico ;  and  yet  more  when  he  recalled  the  like- 
ness to  Catharine  that  had  struck  him  in  the  coach,  and 
caused  the  inquiry  that  had  roused  Philip's  suspicion. 
The  mystery  was  thus  made  clear :  Sidney  had  fled  with 


140  NIGHT    AND   MORNlNtf. 

his  brother.  Nothing  more,  however,  could  be  done 
that  night.  The  next  morning  active  measures  should 
be  devised ;  and,  when  the  morning  came,  the  mail 
brought  to  Mr.  Morton  the  two  following  letters.  The 
first  was  from  Arthur  Beaufort. 

"  Sir, — I  have  only  been  prevented  by  severe  illness 
from  writing  to  you  before.  I  can  now  scarcely  hold  a 
pen ;  but,  the  instant  my  health  is  recovered,  1  shall  be 
with  you  at  N . 

"  On  her  deathbed,  the  mother  of  the  boy  under  your 
charge,  Sidney  Morton,  committed  him  solemnly  to  me* 
the  heir  and  representative  of  his  father.  I  make  his 
fortunes  my  care,  and  shall  hasten  to  claim  him  at  your 
kindly  hands.  But  the  elder  son — this  poor  Philip,  who 
has  suffered  so  unjustly ;  for  our  lawyer  has  seen  Mr. 
Plaskwith,  and  heard  the  whole  story-^what  has  become 
of  him  ?  All  our  inquiries  have  failed  to  track  him 
Alas  !  I  was  too  ill  to  institute  them  myself  while  it  was 
yet  time.  Perhaps  he  may  have  sought  shelter  with 
you,  his  uncle  ;  if  so,  assure  him  that  he  is  in  no  danger 
from  the  pursuit  of  the  law  •  that  his  innocence  is  fully 
recognised;  and  that  my  father  and  myself  implore  him 
to  accept  our  affection.  I  can  write  no  more  now,  but 
in  a  few  days  I  shall  hope  to  see  you. 

"  I  am,  sir,  &c., 

"  Arthur  Beaufort. 

"  Berkeley  Square." 

The  second  letter  was  from  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and  ran 
thus: 

"  Dear  Morton, — Something  very  awkward  has  hap- 
pened— not  my  fault,  and  very  unpleasant  for  me.  Your 
relation,  Philip,  as  I  wrote  you  word,  was  a  painstaking 
lad,  though  odd  and  bad  mannered — for  want,  perhaps, 
poor  boy,  of  being  taught  better ;  and  Mrs.  P.  is,  you 
know,  a  very  genteel  woman — women  go  too  much  by 
manners — so  she  never  took  much  to  him.  However, 
to  the  point,  as  the  French  emperor  used  to  say:  one 
evening  he  asked  me  for  money  for  his  mother,  who,  he 
said,  was  ill,  in  a  very  insolent  way — I  may  say,  threat- 
ening. It  was  in  my  own  shop,  and  before  Plimmins 
and  Mrs.  P. ;  I  was  forced  to  answer  with  dignified  re- 
buke, and  left  the  shop.    When  I  returned,  he  was  gone, 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  141 

and  some  shillings — fourteen,  I  think,  and  three  sover- 
eigns— evidently  from  the  till,  scattered  on  the  floor. 
Mrs.  P.  and  Mr.  Plimmins  were  very  much  frightened; 
thought  it  was  clear  I  was  robbed,  and  that  we  were  to 
be  murdered.  Plimmins  slept  below  that  night,  and  we 
borrowed  butcher  Johnson's  dog.  Nothing  happened. 
I  did  not  think  I  was  robbed,  because  the  money,  when 
we  came  to  calculate,  was  all  right.  I  know  human 
nature :  he  had  thought  to  take  it,  but  repented — quite 
clear.  However,  I  was  naturally  very  angry — thought 
he'd  come  back  again — meant  to  reprove  him  properly 
— waited  several  days — heard  nothing  of  him — grew  un- 
easy— would  not  attend  longer  to  Mrs.  P.  (for,  as  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  observed, '  women  are  well  in  their  way, 
not  in  ours^) — made  Plimmins  go  with  me  to  town — 
hired  a  Bow-street  runner  to  track  him  out — cost  me 
£l  Is.,  and  two  glasses  of  brandy  and  water.  Poor 
Mrs.  Morton  was  just  buried — quite  shocked !  Sud- 
denly saw  the  boy  in  the  streets.  Plimmins  rushed 
forward  in  the  kindest  way — was  knocked  down — hurt 
his  arm — paid  2^.  Qd.  for  lotion.  Philip  ran  off — we  ran 
after  him — could  not  find  him.  Forced  to  return  home. 
Next  day,  a  lawyer  from  a  Mr.  Beaufort — Mr.  George 
Blackwell,  a  gentleman-like  man — called.  Mr.  Beau- 
fort will  do  anything  for  him  in  reason.  Is  there  any- 
thing more  /  can  do  T  I  really  am  very  uneasy  about 
the  lad,  and  Mrs.  P.  and  I  have  a  tiff  about  it ;  but  that's 
nothing — thought  I  had  best  write  to  you  for  instruc- 
tions. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  C.  Plaskwith. 
"P.S. — Just  open  my  letter  to  say,  Bow-street  officer 
just  been  here — has  found  out  that  the  boy  has  been 
seen  with  a  very  suspicious  character :  they  think  he 
has  left  London.  Bow-street  officer  wants  to  go  after 
him — very  expensive  :  so  now  you  can  decide." 

Mr.  Spencer  scarce  listened  to  the  former  letter,  but 
of  the  latter  he  felt  jealous.  He  would  fain  have  been 
the  only  protector  to  Catharine's  children  ;  but  he  was 
the  last  man  fitted  to  head  the  search,  now  so  neces- 
sary to  prosecute  with  equal  tact  and  energy. 

A  soft-he  jirted,  soft-headed  man — a  confirmed  valetu- 
dinarian— a  day-dreamer,  who  had  wasted  away  his  life 
in  dawdling  and  maundering  over  simple  poetry,  and 


#  ^ 


142  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

sighing   over  his   unhappy   attachment — no  child,  no 
babe,  was  so  thoroughly  helpless  as  Mr.  Spencer. 

The  task  of  investigation  devolved,  therefore,  on  Mr. 
Morton,  and  he  went  about  it  in  a  regular,  plain,  straight- 
forward way.  Handbills  were  circulated,  constables 
employed,  and  a  lawyer,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Spencer, 
despatched  to  the  manufacturing  districts,  towards 
■which  the  orphans  had  been  seen  to  direct  their  path. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

"  Give  the  gentle  South 
Yet  leave  to  court  those  sails." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  Beggar's  Bush, 

"  Cut  your  cloth,  sir, 
According  to  your  calling." — Ibid. 

Meanwhile  the  brothers  were  far  away,  and  He  who 
feeds  the  young  ravens  made  their  paths  pleasant  to 
their  feel.  Philip  had  broken  to  Sidney  the  sad  newsi 
of  their  mother's  death,  and  Sidney  had  wept  with  bitter 
passion.  But  children,  what  can  they  know  of  death  ? 
Their  tears  over  graves  dry  sooner  than  the  dews.  It 
is  melancholy  to  compare  the  depth,  the  endurance,  the 
far-sighted,  anxious,  prayerful  love  of  a  parent,  with 
the  inconsiderate,  frail,  and  evanescent  affection  of  the 
infant,  whose  eyes  the  hues  of  the  butterfly  yet  dazzle 
with  delight.  It  was  the  night  of  their  flight,  and  in 
the  open  air,  when  Phihp  (his  arms  round  Sidney's 
waist)  told  his  brother-orphan  that  they  were  mother- 
less. And  the  air  was  balmy,  the  skies  filled  with  the 
effulgent  presence  of  the  August  moon ;  the  cornfields 
stretched  round  them  wide  and  far,  and  not  a  leaf  trem- 
bled on  the  beech-tree  beneath  which  they  had  sought 
shelter.  It  seemed  as  if  Nature  herself  smiled  pity- 
ingly on  their  young  sorrow,  and  said  to  them,  "  Grieve 
not  for  the  dead ;  I,  who  live  for  ever,  /  will  be  your 
mother  !" 

They  crept,  as  the  night  deepened,  into  the  warmer 
sleeping-place  afforded  by  stacks  of  hay,  mown  that 
Bummer,  and  still  fragrant.    And  the  next  morning  tiie 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  143 

birds  woke  them  betimes,  to  feel  that  Liberty,  at  least, 
was  with  them,  and  to  wander  with  her  at  will. 

Who  in  his  boyhood  has  not  felt  the  delight  of  free- 
dom and  adventure — to  have  the  world  of  woods  and 
sward  before  him — to  escape  restriction — to  lean,  for 
the  first  time,  on  his  own  resources — to  rejoice  in  the 
wild  but  manly  luxury  of  independence — to  act  the 
Crusoe — and  to  fancy  a  Friday  in  every  footprint — an 
island  of  his  own  in  every  field  1  Yes,  in  spite  of  their 
desolation,  their  loss,  of  the  melancholy  past,  of  the 
friendless  future,  the  orphans  were  happy  ;  happy  in 
their  youth,  their  freedom,  their  love,  their  wanderings 
in  the  delicious  air  of  the  glorious  August.  Some- 
times they  came  upon  knots  of  reapers  lingering  in  the 
shade  of  the  hedgerows  over  their  noonday  meal ;  and, 
grown  sociable  by  travel  and  bold  by  safety,  they  joined 
and  partook  of  the  rude  fare  with  the  zest  of  fatigue 
and  youth.  Sometimes,  too,  at  night,  they  saw,  gleanj 
afar  and  red  by  the  woodside,  the  fires  of  gipsy  tents. 
But  these,  with  the  superstition  derived  from  old  nurse- 
ry tales,  they  scrupulously  shunned,  eying  them  with  a 
mysterious  awe  !  What  heavenly  twilights  belong  to 
that  golden  month !  the  air  so  lucidly  serene,  as  the 
purple  of  the  clouds  fades  gradually  away,  and  up 
soars,  broad,  round,  intense,  and  luminous,  the  full 
moon  which  belongs  to  the  joyous  season  !  The  fields 
then  are  greener  than  in  the  heats  of  July  and  June  ; 
they  have  got  back  the  luxury  of  a  second  spring. 
And  still,  beside  the  paths  of  the  travellers,  lingered  on 
the  hedges  the  clustering  honeysuckle ;  the  convolvu^ 
lus  glittered  in  the  tangles  of  the  brake  ;  the  hardy 
heath-flower  smiled  on  the  green  waste, 

And  ever,  at  evening,  they  came,  field  after  field,  upon 
those  circles  which  recall  to  children  so  many  charmed 
legends,  and  are  fresh  and  frequent  in  that  month — the 
Fairy  Rings  !  They  thought,  poor  boys,  that  it  was  a 
good  omen,  and  half  fancied  that  the  fairies  protected 
them,  as  in  the  old  time  they  had  often  protected  the 
desolate  and  outcast. 

They  avoided  the  main  roads,  and  all  towns,  with 
suspicious  care.  But  sometimes  they  paused,  for  food 
and  rest,  at  the  obscure  hostels  of  some  scattered  ham- 
lets ;  though,  more  often,  they  loved  to  spread  the  sim- 
ple food  they  purchased  by  the  way  under  some  thick 
tree,  or  beside  a  stream,  through  whose  limpid  watery 


144  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

they  could  watch  the  trout  glide  and  play.  And  they 
often  preferred  the  chance-shelter  of  a  haystack  or  a 
shed  to  the  less  romantic  repose  afforded  by  the  small 
inns  they  alone  dared  to  enter.  They  went,  in  this, 
much  by  the  face  and  voice  of  the  host  or  hostess. 
Once  only  Philip  had  entered  a  town,  on  the  second  day 
of  their  flight,  and  that  solely  for  the  purchase  of  ruder 
clothes,  and  a  change  of  linen  for  Sidney,  with  some 
implements  of  use  necessary  in  their  present  course  of 
shift  and  welcome  hardship.  A  wise  precaution  ;  for, 
thus  clad,  they  escaped  suspicion. 

So  journeying,  they  consumed  several  days ;  and, 
having  taken  a  direction  quite  opposite  to  that  which  led 
to  the  manufacturing  districts,  whither  pursuit  had  been 
directed,  they  were  now  in  the  centre  of  another  coun- 
ty— in  the  neighbourhood  of  one  of  the  most  considera- 
ble towns  of  England  ;  and  here  Philip  began  to  think 
their  wanderings  ought  to  cease,  and  it  was  time  to 
settle  on  some  definite  course  of  life.  He  had  care- 
fully hoarded  about  his  person,  and  most  thriftily  man- 
aged, the  little  fortune  bequeathed  by  his  mother.  But 
Philip  looked  on  this  capital  as  a  deposite  sacred  to 
Sidney;  it  was  not  to  be  spent,  but  kept  and  augment- 
ed— the  nucleus  for  future  wealth.  Within  the  last  few 
weeks  his  character  was  greatly  ripened,  and  his  pow- 
ers of  thought  enlarged.  He  was  no  more  a  boy, 
he  was  a  man  ;  he  had  another  life  to  take  care  of. 
He  resolved,  then,  to  enter  the  town  they  were  ap- 
proaching, and  to  seek  for  some  situation  by  which  he 
might  maintain  both.  Sidney  was  very  loath  to  aban- 
don their  present  roving  life ;  but  he  allowed  that  the 
warm  weather  could  not  always  last,  and  that  in  winter 
the  fields  would  be  less  pleasant.  He  therefore,  with  a 
sigh,  yielded  to  his  brother's  reasonings. 

They  entered  the  fair  and  busy  town  of one  day 

at  noon ;  and,  after  finding  a  small  lodging,  at  which  he 
deposited  Sidney,  who  was  fatigued  with  their  day's 
work,  Philip  sallied  forth  alone. 

After  his  long  rambling,  Philip  was  pleased  and  struck 
with  the  broad,  bustling  streets,  the  gay  shops — the  ev- 
idences of  opulence  and  trade.  He  thought  it  hard  if 
he  could  not  find  there  a  market  for  the  health  and 
heart  of  sixteen.  He  strolled  slowly  and  alone  along 
the  streets  till  his  attention  was  caught  by  a  small  cor- 


VIGHT    AND   MORNING.  145 

ner-shop,  in  the  window  of  which  was  placed  a  board 
bearing  this  inscription  : 

"  OFFICE   FOB    EMPLOYBIENT. RECIPROCAL    ADVANTAGE. 

"  Mr.  John  Clump's  bureau  open  every  day  from  ten 
till  four.  Clerks,  servants,  labourers,  <S£C.,  provided 
with  suitable  situations.  Terms  moderate.  N.B. — The 
oldest  established  office  in  the  town. 

"  Wanted,  a  good  cook.     An  nnder-gardener." 

What  he  sought  was  here.  Philip  entered,  and  saw 
a  short,  fat  man,  with  spectacles,  seated  before  a  desk, 
poring  upon  the  well-filled  leaves  of  a  long  register. 

"  Sir,"  said  Philip,  *'  I  wish  for  a  situation ;  I  don't 
care  what." 

"  Half  a  crown  for  entry,  if  you  please.  That's  right. 
Now  for  particulars.  Hum !  you  don't  look  like  a  ser- 
vant !" 

"  No  ;  I  wish  for  any  place  where  my  education  carji 
be  of  use.  I  can  read,  write — I  know  Latin  and  French 
— I  can  draw — I  know  arithmetic  and  summing." 

"  Very  well ;  very  genteel  young  man — prepossessing 
appearance  (that's  a  fudge !) — highly  educated — usher  in 
a  school,  eh  V 

"  What  you  like." 

"References?" 

"  I  have  none." 

•'Eh!  none?"  and  Mr.  Clump  fixed  his  spectacles 
full  upon  Philip. 

Philip  was  prepared  for  the  question,  and  had  the  art 
to  perceive  that  a  frank  reply  was  his  best  policy. 
"  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  boldly,  "  I  was  well  brought  up ; 
my  father  died ;  1  was  bound  apprentice  to  a  trade  I 
disliked;  I  left  it,  and  have  now  no  friends." 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Clump,  coldly. 
"  Can't  promise  much.  If  you  were  a  labourer,  characr 
ter  might  not  matter;  but  educated  young  men  must 
have  a  character.  Hands  always  more  useful  than 
head.  Education  no  avail  nowadays — common,  quite 
common.     Call  again  on  Monday." 

Somewhat  disappointed  and  chilled,  Philip  turned  from 
the  bureau ;  but  he  had  a  strong  confidence  in  his  own 
resources,  and  recovered  his  spirits  as  he  mingled  with 
the  throng.  He  passed  at  length  by  a  Uvery-stable,  and 
paused,  from  old  associations,  as  he  saw  a  groom  in  th? 

Vol.  I.— N 


146  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

mews  attempting  to  manage  a  young,  hot  horse,  evi- 
dently unbroken.  The  master  of  the  stables,  in  a  green 
short  jacket  and  top  boots,  with  a  long  whip  in  his  hand, 
was  standing  by,  with  one  or  two  men  who  looked  like 
horsedealers. 

"  Come  off,  clumsy  !  You  can't  manage  that  'ere  fine 
hanimal,"  cried  the  liveryman.  "  Ah  !  he's  a  lamb,  sir, 
if  he  were  backed  properly.  But  I  has  not  a  man  in  the 
yard  as  can  ride  since  Will  died.  Come  off,  I  say, 
lubber !" 

But  to  come  off  without  being  thrown  off  was  more 
easily  said  than  done.  The  horse  was  now  plunging  as 
if  .Tuno  had  sent  her  gadfly  to  him ;  and  Philip,  inter- 
ested and  excited,  came  near  and  nearer,  till  he  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  horsedealers.  The  other  hostlers 
ran  to  the  help  of  their  comrade,  who,  at  last,  with 
white  lips  and  shaking  knees,  found  himself  on  terra 
'firma  ;  while  the  horse,  snorting  hard,  and  rubbing  his 
head  against  the  breast  and  arms  of  the  hostler  who 
held  him  tightly  by  the  rein,  seemed  to  ask,  in  his  own 
way,  "  Are  there  any  more  of  you  ]" 

A  suspicion  that  the  horse  was  an  old  acquaintance 
crossed  Philip's  mind  ;  he  went  up  to  him,  and  a  white 
spot  over  the  left  eye  confirmed  his  doubts.  It  had 
been  a  foal  reserved  and  reared  for  his  own  riding ;  one 
that,  in  his  prosperous  day,  had  ate  bread  from  his 
hand,  and  followed  him  round  the  paddock  like  a  dog ; 
one  that  he  had  mounted  in  sport,  without  saddle,  when 
his  father's  back  was  turned :  a  friend,  in  short,  of  the 
happy  lang  syne  ;  nay,  the  very  friend  to  whom  he  had 
boasted  his  affection,  when,  standing  with  Arthur  Beau- 
fort under  the  summer  sky,  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
him  full  of  friends.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  horse's 
neck,  and  whispered,  "  Soho !  So,  Billy!"  and  the 
horse  turned  sharp  round  with  a  quick,  joyous  neigh. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Philip,  appealing  to  the  liv- 
eryman, "  1  will  undertake  to  ride  this  horse,  and  take 
him  over  yon  leaping-bar.     .lust  let  me  try  him." 

"  There's  a  fme-spirited  lad  for  you  !"  said  the  livery- 
man, much  pleased  at  the  offer.  "  Now,  gentlemen, 
did  I  not  tell  you  that  ere  hanimal  had  novice  if  he  was 
properly  managed  ■?" 

The  horsedealers  shook  their  heads. 

"  May  I  give  him  some  bread  first?"  asked  Phihp; 
and  the  hostler  was  despatched  to  the  house.    Mean- 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  147 

while,  the  animal  evinced  various  signs  of  pleasure  and 
recognition  as  Philip  stroked  and  talked  to  hira ;  and, 
finally,  when  he  ate  the  bread  from  the  young  man's 
hands,  the  whole  yard  seemed  in  as  much  delight  and 
surprise  as  if  they  had  witnessed  one  of  Monsieur  Van 
Amburgh's  exploits. 

And  now  Philip,  still  caressing  him,  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously mounted  ;  the  horse  made  one  bound  half  across 
the  yard— a  bound  which  sent  all  the  horsedealers  into 
a  corner — and  then  went  through  his  paces,  one  after 
the  other,  with  as  nmch  ease  and  calm  as  if  he  had 
been  broke  in  at  Mr.  F'ozard's  to  carry  a  young  lady. 
And  when  he  crowned  all  by  going  thrice  over  the  leap- 
ing-bar,  and  Philip,  dismounting,  threw  the  reins  to  the 
hostler,  and  turned  triumphantly  to  the  horsedealer, 
that  gentleman  slapped  him  on  the  back,  and  said  em- 
phatically, "  Sir,  you  are  a  man !  and  I  am  proud  to 
see  you  here." 

Meanwhile,  the  horsedealers  gathered  round  the  an- 
imal ;  looked  at  his  hoofs,  felt  his  legs,  examined  his 
windpipe,  and  concluded  the  bargain,  which,  but  for 
Philip,  would  have  been  very  abruptly  broken  off.  When 
the  horse  was  led  out  of  the  yard,  the  liveryman,  Mr. 
Stubmore,  turned  to  Philip,  who,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  followed  the  poor  animal  with  mournful  eyes. 

"  My  good  sir,  you  have  sold  that  horse  for  me — that 
you  have  !  Anything  as  I  can  do  for  you  1  One  good 
turn  deserves  another.     Here's  a  brace  of  shiners." 

"Thank  you,  sir;  I  want  no  money,  but  I  do  want 
some  employment.  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  perhaps,  in 
your  establishment.  I  have  been  brought  up  among 
horses  all  my  life." 

"  Saw  it,  sir!  that's  very  clear.  I  say  that  'ere  horse 
knows  you!"  and  the  dealer  put  his  finger  to  his  nose. 
"Quite  right  to  be  mum!  He  came  from  an  old  cus- 
tomer of  mine — famous  rider ! — Mr.  Beaufort.  Aha  ! 
that's  where  you  knew  him,  I  'spose.  Were  you  in  his 
stables  V 

"  Hem — I  knew  Mr.  Beaufort  well." 

"  Did  you  ^  You  could  not  know  a  better  man. 
Well,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  engage  you,  though  you 
seem,  by  your  hands,  to  be  a  bit  of  a  gentleman,  eh  ? 
Never  mind;  don't  want  you  to  groom,  but  superintend 
things.     D'ye  know  how  to  keep  accounts,  eh!" 

"  Yes." 


148  J^flGHT    AND   MORNING* 

"Character?" 

Philip  repealed  to  Mr.  Stubmore  the  stoi^  he  had  iiBf-» 
parted  to  Mr.  Chimp.  Somehow  or  other,  men  who 
live  much  with  horses  are  always  more  lax  ia  their  no- 
tions than  the  rest  of  mankind.  Mr.  Stubmore  did  not 
Beem  to  grow  more  distant  at  Philip's  narration. 

"  Understand  you  perfectly^  my  man.  Brought  up 
with  them  'ere  fine  creturs,  how  could  you  nail  your 
nose  to  a  desk  1  I'll  take  you  without  more  palaver. 
What's  yonr  name  ]" 

"  Phihps." 

"  Come  to-morrow,  and  we'll  settle  about  wages* 
Sleep  here  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  a  brother  whom  I  must  lodge  with^ 
and  for  whose  sake  I  wish  to  work.  I  should  not  like 
him  to  be  at  the  stables— ^he  is  too  young.  But  I  can 
come  early  every  day,  and  go  home  late." 

"  Well,  just  as  you  like,  man.     Good-day." 

And  thus,  not  from  any  mental  accomplishment — not 
from  the  result  of  his  intellectual  education,  but  from 
the  mere  physical  capacity  and  brute  habit  of  sticking 
fast  in  his  saddle,  did  Philip  Morton,  in  this  great,  in- 
telligent, civilized,  enlightened  community  of  Great 
Britain,  find  the  nieans  of  earning  his  bread  without 
Stealing  it. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

"Don  Salliiste  (souriaut).  Je  parie 
Que  vous  ne  pensiez  pas  d  moi  ?" — Ruy  Blot. 

"  Don  Sallusie.  Cousin  ! 

"  Don  Cisar.  De  vo5  bienfaits  je  n'aurai  nulle  envie,,- 
Tant  que  je  trouverai  vWant  ma  libre  vie." — Ibidi 

Philip's  situation  was  agreeable  to  his  habits.  His 
great  courage  and  skill  in  horsemanship  were  not  the 
only  qualifications  useful  to  Mr.  Stubmore  :  his  educa- 
tion answered  a  useful  purpose  in  accounts,  and  his 
manners  and  appearance  were  highly  to  the  credit  of 
the  yard.  The  customers  and  loungers  soon  grew  to 
like  Gentleman  Philips,  as  he  was  styled  in  the  estab- 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  149 

Hshment.  Mr.  Stubmore  conceived  a  real  affection  for 
him.  So  passed  several  weeks ;  and  Philip,  in  this 
humble  capacity,  might  have  worked  out  his  destinies 
in  peace  and  comfort,  but  for  a  new  cause  of  vexation 
that  arose  in  Sidney.  This  boy  was  all  in  all  to  his 
brother.  For  him  he  had  resisted  the  hearty  and  joy- 
ous invitations  of  Gawtrey  (whose  gay  manner  and  high 
spirits  had,  it  must  be  owned,  captivated  his  fancy,  de- 
spite the  equivocal  mystery  of  the  man's  avocations 
and  condition) ;  for  him  he  now  worked  and  toiled, 
cheerful  and  contented  ;  and  him  he  sought  to  save  from 
all  to  which  he  subjected  himself.  He  could  not  bear 
that  that  soft  and  delicate  child  should  ever  be  exposed 
to  the  low  and  menial  associations  that  now  made  up 
his  own  life — to  the  obscene  slang  of  grooms  and  host- 
lers— to  their  coarse  manners  and  rough  contact.  He 
kept  him,  therefore,  apart  and  aloof  in  their  little  lodg- 
ing, and  hoped  in  time  to  lay  by,  so  that  Sidney  might 
ultimately  be  restored,  if  not  to  his  bright  original 
sphere,  at  least  to  a  higher  grade  than  that  to  which 
Philip  was  condemned.  But  poor  Sidney  could  not 
bear  to  be  thus  left  alone — to  lose  sight  of  his  brother 
from  daybreak  till  bedtime — to  have  no  one  to  amuse 
him  ;  he  fretted  and  puied  away  :  all  the  little  inconsid- 
erate selfishness,  uneradicated  from  his  breast  by  his 
sufferings,  broke  out  the  more,  the  more  he  felt  that  he 
was  the  first  object  on  earth  to  Philip.  Philip,  thinking 
he  might  be  more  cheerful  at  a  dayschool,  tried  the  ex- 
periment of  placing  him  at  one  where  the  boys  were 
much  of  his  own  age.  But  Sidney,  on  the  third  day, 
came  back  with  a  black  eye,  and  he  would  return  no 
more.  Philip  several  times  thought  of  changing  their 
lodging  for  one  where  there  were  young  people.  But 
Sidney  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  kind  old  widow^  who 
was  their  landlady,  and  cried  at  the  thought  of  removal. 
Unfortunately,  the  old  woman  was  deaf  and  rheumatic ; 
and,  though  she  bore  teasing  ad  libitum,  she  could  not 
entertain  him  long  on  a  stretch.  Too  young  to  be  rea- 
sonable, Sidney  could  not  or  would  not  comprehend 
why  his  brother  was  so  long  away  from  him  ;  and  once 
he  said  peevishly, 

"  If  I  had  thought  I  was  to  be  moped  up  so,  I  would 
not  have  left  Mrs.  Morton.  Tom  was  a  bad  boy,  but 
still  it  was  somebody  to  play  with.  I  wish  I  had  not 
gone  away  with  you !" 

N2 


iB6  NIGrif  Afftf  MoKNINGi 

This  speech  cut  Philip  to  the  heart.  What,  then,  he 
had  taken  from  the  child  a  respectable  and  safe  shel- 
ter— the  sure  pl"Ovision  of  a  life — and  the  child  now  re- 
proached him !  When  this  was  said  to  him^  the  tears 
gushed  from  his  eyes. 

"  God  forgive  me,  Sidneyj"  said  he,  and  turned  away. 

But  then  Sidney,  who  had  the  most  endearing  ways 
with  him,  seeing  his  brother  so  vexed,  ran  up  and  kiss- 
ed him,  and  scolded  himself  for  being  naughty;  Still 
the  words  were  spoken,  and  their  meaning  rankled 
deep.  Philip  himself,  too,  was  morbid  in  his  excessive 
tenderness  for  this  boy.  There  is  a  certain  age,  before 
the  love  for  the  sex  commences,  when  the  feeling  of 
friendship  is  almost  a  passion.  You  see  it  constantly 
in  girls  and  boys  at  school.  It  is  the  first  vague  craving 
of  the  heart  after  the  master  food  of  human  life— Love. 
It  has  its  jealousies,  and  humours,  and  caprices,  like 
love  itself.  Philip  was  painfully  acute  to  Sidney's  af- 
fection— was  jealous  of  every  particle  of  it.  He  dread- 
ed lest  his  brother  should  ever  be  torn  from  him. 

He  would  start  from  his  sleep  at  night,  and  go  to  Sid- 
ney's bed  to  see  that  he  was  there.  He  left  him  in  the 
morning  with  forebodings,  he  returned  in  the  dark  with 
Hear.  Meanwhile,  the  character  of  this  young  man,  so 
sweet  and  tender  to  Sidney,  was  gradually  becoming 
more  hard  and  stern  to  others.  He  had  now  chmbed 
to  the  post  of  command  in  that  rude  establishment ; 
and  premature  command  in  any  sphere  tends  to  make 
men  unsocial  and  imperious. 

One  day  Mr.  Stubmore  called  him  into  his  own  count- 
ing-house, where  stood  a  gentleman  with  one  hand  in 
his  coat-pocket,  the  other  tapping  his  whip  against  his 
boots. 

"Philips,  show  this  gentleman  the  brown  mare.  She 
is  a  beauty  in  harness,  is  not  she  1  This  gentleman 
wants  a  match  for  his  pheaton." 

"  She  must  step  very  hoigh,"  said  the  gentleman, 
turning  round ;  and  Philip  recognised  the  beau  in  the 
stagecoach. 

The  recognition  was  simultaneous.  The  beau  nod- 
ded, then  whistled,  and  winked. 

"  Come,  my  man,  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  he. 

Philip,  with  many  misgivings,  followed  him  across 
the  yard.  The  gentleman  then  beckoned  him  to  ap- 
[)roach. 


WIGHT   AND  MORNING.  151 

"  You,  sir — moind,  I  never  peach — setting  up  here  in 
the  honest  hne  ?     Dull  work,  honesty,  eh  ■?" 

"Sir,  I  really  don't  know  you." 

"  Daun't  you  recollect  old  Gregg's,  the  evening  you 
came  there  with  jolly  Bill  Gawtreyl  Recollect  that, 
ehl" 

Philip  was  mute. 

"  I  was  among  the  gentlemen  in  the  back-parlour  who 
shook  you  by  the  hand.  Bill's  off  to  France,  then.  1 
am  tanking  the  provinces.  I  want  a  good  horse — the 
best  in  the  yard,  moind !  Cutting  such  a  swell  here ! 
My  name  is  Captain  De  Burgh  Smith — never  moind 
yours,  my  fine  fellow.  Now,  then,  out  with  your  rat- 
tlers, and  keep  your  tongue  in  your  mouth." 

Philip  mechanically  ordered  out  the  brown  mare^ 
which  Captain  Smith  did  not  seem  much  to  approve  of; 
and,  after  glancing  round  the  stables  with  great  disdain 
of  the  collection,  he  sauntered  out  of  the  yard  without 
saying  more  to  Philip,  though  he  stopped  and  spoke  a 
few  sentences  to  Mr.  Stubmore.  Philip  hoped  he  had 
no  design  of  purchasing,  and  that  he  was  rid,  for  the 
present,  of  so  awkward  a  customer.  Mr.  Stubmore  ap- 
proached Philip. 

"  Drive  over  the  grays  to  Sir  John,"  said  he.  "  My 
lady  wants  a  pair  to  job.  A  very  pleasant  man,  that 
Captain  Smith.  I  did  not  know  you  had  been  in  the 
yard  before — says  you  were  the  pet  at  Elmore's,  in 
London.  Served  him  many  a  day.  Pleasant,  gentle- 
manlike man !" 

"  Y — e — s  !"  said  Philip,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
said,  and  hurrying  back  into  the  stables  to  order  out 
the  grays. 

The  place  to  which  he  was  bound  was  some  miles 
distant,  and  it  was  sunset  when  he  returned.  As  he 
drove  into  the  main  street,  two  men  observed  him 
closely. 

"  That  is  he  !    I  am  almost  sure  it  is,"  said  one. 

"Oh!  then  it's  all  smooth  sailing,"  replied  the  other. 

"  But,  bless  my  eyes  !  you  must  be  mistaken  !  See 
whom  he's  talking  to  now  !" 

At  that  moment  Captain  De  Burgh  Smith,  mounted 
on  the  brown  mare,  stopped  Philip. 

"  Well,  you  see  I've  bought  her — hope  she'll  turn  out 
well.  What  do  you  really  think  she's  worth — not  to 
buy,  but  to  sell  1" 


152  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Sixty  guineas." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  day's  work,  and  I  owe  it  to  you. 
The  old  faellow  would  not  have  trusted  me  if  you  had 
not  served  me  at  Elmore's — ha!  ha!  If  he  gets  scent 
and  looks  shy  at  you,  my  lad,  come  to  me.  I'm  at  the 
Star  Hotel  for  the  next  few  days.  I  want  a  tight  fael- 
low like  you,  and  you  shall  have  a  fair  per  centage.  I'm 
none  of  your  stingy  ones.  I  say,  I  hope  this  devil  is 
quiet.     She  cocks  up  her  ears  dawmnably !" 

"  Look  you,  sir !"  said  Philip,  very  gravely,  and  rising 
up  in  his  break,  "  I  know  very  little  of  you,  and  that  lit- 
tle is  not  much  to  your  credit.  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
that  I  shall  caution  my  employer  against  you." 

"  Will  you,  my  fine  faellow  ?  Then  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

"  Stay !  and  if  you  dare  utter  a  word  against  me,"  said 
Philip,  with  that  frown  to  which  his  swarthy  complexion 
and  flashing  eyes  gave  an  expression  of  fierce  power 
beyond  his  years,  "  you  will  find  that  as  I  am  the  last  to 
care  for  a  threat,  so  I  am  the  first  to  resent  an  injury !" 

Thus  saying,  he  drove  on.  Captain  Smith  affected  a 
cough,  and  put  his  brown  mare  into  a  canter.  The  two 
men  followed  Philip  as  he  drove  into  the  yard. 

"  What  do  you  know  against  the  person  he  spoke  to  V 
said  one  of  them. 

"  Merely  that  he  is  one  of  the  cunningest  swells  on 
this  side  the  Bay,"  returned  the  other.  "  It  looks  bad 
for  your  young  friend." 

The  first  speaker  shook  his  head  and  made  no  reply. 

On  gaining  the  yard,  Philip  found  that  Mr.  Stubmore 
had  gone  out,  and  was  not  expected  home  till  next  day. 
He  had  some  relations  who  were  farmers,  whom  he 
often  visited  ;  to  them  he  was  probably  gone. 

Philip  therefore,  deferring  his  intended  caution  against 
the  gay  captain  till  the  morrow,  and  musing  how  the 
caution  might  be  most  discreetly  given,  walked  home- 
ward. He  had  just  entered  the  lane  that  led  to  his  lodg- 
ings, when  he  saw  the  two  men  I  have  spoken  of  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  The  taller  and  better-dressed 
of  the  two  left  his  comrade,  and,  crossing  over  to  Philip, 
bowed,  and  thus  accosted  him  : 

"Fine  evening,  Mr.  Philip  Morton.  I  am  rejoiced  to 
see  you  at  last.  You  remember  me — Mr.  Black  well, 
Lincoln's  Innl" 

"  What  is  your  business  V  said  Philip,  halting,  and 
speaking  short  and  fiercely 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  153 

"  Now  don't  be  in  a  passion,  my  dear  sir — now  don't. 
1  am  here  on  behalf  of  my  clients,  Messrs.  Beaufort, 
sen.  and  jun.  I  have  had  such  work  to  find  you  !  Dear, 
dear  !  but  you  are  a  sly  one  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  see 
we  have  settled  that  little  affair  of  Plaskwith's  for  you 
(might  have  been  ugly),  and  now  I  hope  you  will — " 

"  To  your  business,  sir !  What  do  you  want  with 
meV 

"  Why,  now,  don't  be  80  quick !  'Tis  not  the  way  to 
do  business.  Suppose  you  step  to  my  hotel.  A  glass 
of  wine,  now,  Mr.  Philip !  We  shall  soon  understand 
each  other." 

"  Out  of  my  path,  or  speak  plainly  !" 

Thus  put  to  it,  the  lawyer,  casting  a  glance  at  his 
stout  companion,  who  appeared  to  be  contemplating  the 
sunset  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  came  at  once  to 
the  marrow  of  his  subject. 

"  Well,  then — well,  my  say  is  soon  said.  Mr.  Arthur 
Beaufort  takes  a  most  lively  interest  in  you — it  is  he 
who  has  directed  this  inquiry.  He  bids  me  say  that  he 
shall  be  most  happy — yes,  most  happy — to  serve  you  in 
anything ;  and  if  you  will  but  see  him — he  is  in  the  town 
— I  am  sure  you  will  be  charmed  with  him — most  ami- 
able young  man !" 

"Look  you,  sir,'*  said  Philip,  drawing  himself  up; 
"neither  from  father,  nor  from  son,  nor  from  one  of 
that  family,  on  whose  heads  rest  the  mother's  death  and 
the  orphans'  curse,  will  I  ever  accept  boon  or  benefit — 
with  them,  voluntarily,  I  will  hold  no  communion;  if 
they  force  themselves  in  my  path,  let  them  beware  !  I 
am  earning  my  bread  in  the  way  I  desire — I  am  inde- 
pendent— -I  want  them  not.     Begone  !" 

With  that,  Philip  pushed  aside  the  lawyer  and  strode 
on  rapidly.  Mr.  Blackwell,  absorbed  and  perplexed, 
returned  to  his  companion. 

Philip  regained  his  home,  and  found  Sidney  stationed 
at  the  window  alone,  and  with  wistful  eyes  noting  the 
flight  of  the  gray  moths  as  they  darted  to  and  fro  across 
the  dull  shrubs,  that,  variegated  with  lines  for  washing, 
adorned  the  plot  of  ground  which  the  landlady  called  a 
garden.  The  elder  brother  had  returned  at  an  earlier 
hour  thaniisual,  and  Sidney  did  not  at  first  perceive  him 
enter.  When  he  did,  he  clapped  his  hands  and  ran  to 
him. 

"  This  is  so  good  in  you,  Philip !  I  have  been  so  dull ! 
You  will  come  and  play  now  ]" 


154  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  With  all  my  heart.  Where  shall  we  play !"  said 
Philip,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  Oh,  in  the  garden !  it's  such  a  nice  time  for  hide- 
and-seek." 

"  But  is  it  not  chill  and  damp  for  you  ?"  said  PhiUp. 

"There,  now,  you  are  always  making  excuses.  I 
see  you  don't  like  it.     1  have  no  heart  to  play  now." 

Sidney  seated  himself  and  pouted. 

"  Poor  Sidney !  you  must  be  dull  without  me.  Yes, 
let  us  play;  but  put  on  this  handkerchief;"  and  Phihp 
took  off  his  own  cravat,  and  tied  it  round  his  brother's 
neck,  and  kissed  him. 

Sidney,  whose  anger  seldom  lasted  long,  was  recon- 
ciled, and  they  went  into  the  garden  to  play.  It  was  a 
little  spot,  screened  by  an  old  moss-grown  paling  from 
the  neighbouring  garden  on  the  one  side,  and  a  lane  on 
the  other.  They  played  with  great  glee  till  the  night 
grew  darker  and  the  dews  heavier. 

"  This  must  be  the  last  time,"  cried  Philip.  "  It  is 
my  turn  to  hide." 

"  Very  well !    Now,  then." 

Philip  secreted  himself  behind  a  poplar ;  and,  as  Sid- 
ney searched  for  him,  and  Philip  stole  round  and  round 
the  tree,  the  latter,  happening  to  look  across  the  paling, 
saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  man's  figure  in  the  lane,  who 
appeared  watching  thera.  A  thrill  shot  across  his  breast. 
These  Beauforts,  associated  in  his  thoughts  with  every 
ill  omen  and  augury,  had  they  set  a  spy  upon  his  move- 
ments ?  He  remained  erect  and  gazing  at  the  form, 
when  Sidney  discovered  and  ran  up  to  him  with  his  noi- 
sy laugh. 

As  the  child  clung  to  him,  shouting  with  gladness, 
Philip,  unheeding  his  playmate,  called  aloud  and  impe- 
riously to  the  stranger, 

"  What  are  you  gaping  at  1  Why  do  you  stand  watch- 
ing us  V 

The  man  muttered  something,  moved  on,  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  I  hope  there  are  no  thieves  here  !  I  am  much  afraid 
of  thieves,"  said  Sidney,  tremulously. 

The  fear  grated  on  Philip's  heart.  Had  he  not  him- 
self, perhaps,  been  judged  and  treated  as  a  thief  1  He 
said  nothing,  but  drew  his  brother  within;  and  there,  in 
their  little  room,  by  the  one  poor  candle,  it  was  touch- 
ing and  beautiful  to  see  these  boys — the  tender  patience 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  155 

of  the  elder  lending  itself  to  every  whim  of  the  young- 
er— now  building  houses  with  cards — now  telling  stories 
of  fairy  and  knight-errant,  the  sprighthest  he  could  re- 
member or  invent.  At  length,  as  all  was  over,  and  Sid- 
ney was  undressing  for  the  night,  Philip,  standing  apart, 
said  to  him,  in  a  mournful  voice, 

"  Are  you  sad  now,  Sidney  1" 

"  No !  not  when  you  are  with  me  ;  but  that  is  so  sel- 
dom !" 

"  Do  you  read  none  of  the  story-books  I  bought  for 
youV 

"  Sometimes  !  but  one  can't  read  all  day." 

"  Ah !  Sidney,  if  ever  we  should  part,  perhaps  you 
will  love  me  no  longer  !" 

"  Don't  say  so,"  said  Sidney.  "  But  we  sha'n't  part, 
Philip  V 

Phihp  sighed  and  turned  away  as  his  brother  leaped 
into  bed.  Something  whispered  to  him  that  danger  was 
near ;  and  as  it  was,  could  Sidney  grow  up,  neglected 
and  uneducated :  was  it  thus  that  he  was  to  fulfil  his 
trust  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  But  oh,  what  storm  was  in  that  mind !" 

Crabbe  :  Ruth. 

While  Philip  mused  and  his  brother  fell  into  the  hap- 
py sleep  of  boyhood,  in  a  room  in  the  principal  hotel 
of  the  town  sat  three  persons,  Arthur  Beaufort,  Mr. 
Spencer,  and  Mr.  Blackwell. 

"  And  so,"  said  the  first,  "  he  rejected  every  overture 
from  the  Beauforts  V 

"  With  a  scorn  I  cannot  convey  to  you  !"  replied  the 
lawyer,  "But  the  fact  is,  that  he  is  evidently  a  lad  of 
low  habits — ^to  think  of  his  being  a  sort  of  helper  to  a 
horsedealer !  I  suppose,  sir,  he  was  always  in  the  sta- 
bles in  his  fathers  time.  Bad  company  depraves  the 
taste  very  soon ;  but  that  is  not  the  worst.  Sharp  de- 
clares that  the  man  he  was  talking  with,  as  I  told  you, 
is  a  common  swindler.  Depend  on  it,  Mr.  Arthur.  Ae  is 
incorrigible ;  all  we  can  do  is  to  save  the  brother." 


156  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  It  is  too  dreadful  to  contemplate !"  said  Arthur,  who, 
still  ill  and  languid,  reclined  on  a  sofa. 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  Mr,  Spencer;  "I  am  sure  I 
should  not  know  what  to  do  with  such  a  character ;  but 
the  other  poor  child,  it  would  be  a  mercy  to  get  hold 
of  Aim." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Sharp  V  asked  Arthur. 

"  Why,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  he  has  followed  Philip  at 
a  distance  to  find  out  his  lodgings,  and  learn  if  his  broth- 
er  is  with  him.  Oh !  here  he  is !"  and  Blackwell's  com- 
panion in  the  earher  part  of  the  evening  entered. 

"  I  have  found  him  out,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Sharp,  wiping 
his  forehead.  "  What  a  fierce  'un  he  is  !  I  thought  he 
would  have  had  a  stone  at  my  head  ;  but  we  officers  are 
used  to  it ;  we  does  our  duty,  and  Providence  makes 
our  heads  unkimmon  hard  !" 

"  Is  the  child  with  him  V  asked  Mr.  Spencer. 

«'  Yes,  sir." 

"  A  little,  quiet,  subdued  boy  V  asked  the  melancholy 
inhabitant  of  the  Lakes. 

"  Quiet !  Lord  love  you  !  never  heard  a  noisier  little 
urchin  !  There  they  were,  romping  and  rouping  in  the 
garden  like  a  couple  of  jail-birds." 

"  You  see,"  groaned  Mr,  Spencer,  "  he  will  make 
that  poor  child  as  bad  as  himself." 

"What  shall  us  do,  Mr.  BlackwelM"  asked  Sharp, 
who  longed  for  his  brandy  and  water, 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking  you  might  go  to  the  horse- 
dealer  the  first  thing  in  the  morning;  find  out  whether 
Philip  is  really  thick  with  the  swindler;  and  perhaps 
Mr,  Stubmore  may  have  some  influence  with  him,  if, 
without  saying  who  he  is — " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Arthur  j  "  do  not  expose  his 
name," 

"  You  could  still  hint  that  he  ought  to  be  induced  to 
listen  to  his  friends,  and  go  with  them,  Mr,  Stubmore 
may  be  a  respectable  man,  and — " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Sharp;  "I  have  no  doubt  as 
how  I  can  settle  it.  We  learns  to  know  human  nature 
in  our  perfession — 'cause  why,  we  gets  at  its  blind  side. 
Good-night,  gentlemen !" 

"You  seem  very  pale,  Mr.  Arthur;  you  had  better 
go  to  bed  :  you  promised  your  father,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  am  not  well ;  1  will  go  to  bed ;"  and  Arthur 
rose,  lighted  his  candle,  and  sought  his  room. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  157 

"I  will  see  Philip  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"he  will  listen  to  me." 

The  conduct  of  Arthur  Beaufort,  in  executing  the 
charge  he  had  undertaken,  had  brought  into  full  light  all 
the  most  amiable  and  generous  parts  of  his  character. 
As  soon  as  he  was  sufficiently  recovered,  he  had  ex- 
pressed so  much  anxiety  as  to  the  fate  of  the  orphans, 
that,  t©  quiet  him,  his  father  was  forced  to  send  for  Mr. 
Blackwell.  The  lawyer  had  ascertained,  through  Dr. 
,  the  name  of  Philip's  employer  at  R .  At  Ar- 
thur's request,  he  went  down  to  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and,  ar- 
riving there  the  day  after  the  return  of  the  bookseller, 
learned  those  particulars  with  which  Mr.  Plaskwith's 
letter  to  Roger  Morton  has  already  made  the  reader  ac- 
quainted. The  lawyer  then  sent  for  Mr.  Sharpe,  the 
officer  before  employed,  and  commissioned  him  to  track 
the  young  man's  whereabout.  That  shrewd  functionary 
soon  reported  that  a  youth  every  way  answering  to 
Philip's  description  had  been  introduced,  the  night  of  the 
escape,  by  a  man  celebrated,  not,  indeed,  for  robberies,  or 
larcenies,  or  crimes  of  the  coarser  kind,  but  for  address 
in  all  that  more  large  and  complex  character  which 
comes  under  the  denomination  of  living  upon  one's  wits, 
to  a  polite  rendezvous  frequented  by  persons  of  a  sim- 
ilar profession.  Since  then,  however,  all  clew  of  Philip 
was  lost.  But,  though  Mr.  Blackwell,  in  the  way  of 
his  profession,  was  thus  publicly  benevolent  towards 
the  fugitive,  he  did  not  the  less  privately  represent  to  his 
patrons,  senior  and  junior,  the  verj'  equivocal  character 
that  Philip  must  be  allowed  to  bear.  Like  most  law- 
yers, hard  upon  all  who  wander  from  the  formal  tracks, 
he  unaffectedly  regarded  Philip's  flight  and  absence  as 
proofs  of  a  very  reprobate  disposition;  and  this  con- 
duct was  greatly  aggravated  in  his  eyes  by  Mr.  Sharp's 
report,  by  which  it  appeared  that,  after  his  escape,  Philip 
had  so  suddenl)',  and,  as  it  were,  so  naturally,  taken  to 
such  equivocal  companionship.  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort, 
already  prejudiced  against  Philip,  viewed  matters  in  the 
same  light  as  the  lawyer ;  and  the  story  of  his  supposed 
predilections  reached  Arthur's  ears  in  so  distorted  a 
shape,  that  even  he  was  staggered  and  revolted ;  still, 
Philip  was  so  young — Arthur's  oath  to  the  orphans' 
mother  so  recent — and,  if  thus  early  inclined  to  wrong 
courses,  should  not  every  effort  be  made  to  lure  him 
back  to  the  broad  path  ^     With  these  views  and  reason- 

VoL.  I.— O 


158  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

ings,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  Arthur  himself  visited  Mrs. 
Lacy  ;  and  the  note  from  Philip,  which  that  good  lady  put 
into  his  hands,  affected  him  deeply,  and  confirmed  all 
his  previous  resolutions.  Mrs.  Lacy  was  very  anxious 
to  get  at  his  name ;  but  Arthur,  having  heard  that  Philip 
had  refused  all  aid  from  his  father  and  Mr.  Blackwell, 
thought  that  the  young  man's  pride  might  work  equally 
against  himself,  and  therefore  evaded  the  landlady's  cu- 
riosity. He  wrote  the  next  day  the  letter  we  have  seen 
to  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  whose  address  Catharine  had  given 
to  him ;  and  by  return  of  post  came  a  letter  from  the 
linen-draper,  narrating  the  flight  of  Sidney,  as  it  was 
supposed,  with  his  brother.  This  news  so  excited  Ar- 
thur, that  he  insisted  on  going  down  to  N at  once, 

and  joining  in  the  search.  His  father,  alarmed  for  his 
health,  positively  refused ;  and  the  consequence  was 
an  increase  of  fever,  a  consultation  with  the  doctors, 
and  a  declaration  that  Mr.  Arthur  was  in  that  state  that 
It  would  be  dangerous  not  to  let  him  have  his  own  way. 
Mr.  Beaufort  was  forced  to  yield,  and,  with  Blackwell 

and  Mr.  Sharp,  accompanied  his  son  to  N .     The 

inquiries,  hitherto  fruitless,  then  assumed  a  more  regu- 
lar and  business-like  character.  By  little  and  little  they 
came,  through  the  aid  of  Mr.  Sharp,  upon  the  right  clew 
tip  to  a  certain  point.  But  here  there  was  a  double 
scent:  two  youths  answering  the  description  had  been 
seen  at  a  small  village ;  then  there  came  those  who  as- 
serted that  they  had  seen  the  same  youths  at  a  seaport 
in  one  direction ;  others,  who  deposed  to  their  having 
taken  the  road  to  an  inland  town  in  the  other.  This  had 
induced  Arthur  and  his  father  to  part  company.  Mr. 
Beaufort,  accompanied  by  Roger  Morton,  went  to  the 
seaport,  and  Arthur,  with  Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Sharp, 
more  fortunate,  tracked  the  fugitives  to  their  retreat. 
As  for  Mr.  Beaufort  senior,  now  that  his  mind  was  more 
at  ease  about  his  son,  he  was  thoroughly  sick  of  the 
whole  thing  ;  greatly  bored  by  the  society  of  Mr.  Mor- 
ton ;  very  much  ashamed  that  he,  so  respectable  and 
great  a  man,  should  be  employed  on  such  an  errand ; 
more  afraid  of,  than  pleased  with,  any  chance  of  discov- 
ering the  fierce  Pliilip ;  and  secretly  resolving  upon  slink- 
ing back  to  London  at  the  first  reasonable  excuse. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Sharp  entered  betimes  Mr. 
Stubmore's  counting-house.  In  the  yard  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Philip,  and  managed  to  keep  himself  unseen 
by  that  young    entleman. 


mbHT   AND  MORNING.  159 

"  Mr.  Stubmore,  I  think  V 
"At  your  service,  sir." 

Mr.  Sharp  shut  the  glass  door  mysteriou!»ly,  and, 
lifting  up  the  corner  of  the  green  curtain  that  covered 
the  panes,  beckoned  to  the  startled  Stubmore  to  ap- 
proach. 

"  You  see  that  'ere  young  man  in  the  velveteen  jacket 
— you  employs  him  !" 

"  I  do,  sir;  he  is  my  right  hand." 

"  Well,  now,  don't  be  frightened ;  but  his  friends  are 
arter  him.  He  has  got  into  bad  ways,  and  we  want  you 
to  give  him  a  little  good  advice." 

"  Pooh  !  1  know  he  has  run  away,  like  a  fine-spirited 
lad  as  he  is ;  and,  as  long  as  he  likes  to  stay  with  me, 
they  as  comes  after  him  may  get  a  ducking  in  the  horse- 
trough  !" 

"  Be  you  a  father-^a  father  of  a  family,  Mr.  Stub- 
more  V  said  Sharp,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  breeches 
pockets,  swelling  out  his  stomach,  and  pursing  up  his 
lips  with  great  solemnity. 

"Nonsense!  no  gammon  with  me!  Take  your  chaff 
to  the  goslings.  I  tells  you  1  can't  do  without  that  'ere 
lad.     Every  man  to  himself." 

"  Oho !"  thought  Sharp,  "  I  must  change  the  tack. 
Mr.  Stubmore,"  said  he,  taking  a  stool,  "  you  speak  like 
a  sensible  man.  No  one  can  reasonably  go  for  to  ask 
a  gentleman  to  go  for  to  inconvenience  his-self.  But 
what  do  you  know  of  that  'ere  youngster?  Had  you  a 
carakter  with  him  1" 

"  What's  that  to  you  V 

"  Why  it's  more  to  yourself,  Mr.  Stubmore ;  he  is  but 
a  lad,  and  if  he  goes  back  to  his  friends,  they  may  take 
care  of  him ;  but  he  got  into  a  bad  set  afore  he  come 
here.  Do  you  know  a  good-looking  chap  with  whis- 
kers, who  talks  of  his  pheaton,  and  was  riding  last  night 
on  a  brown  mare  V 

"  Y — e — s  !"  said  Mr.  Stubmore,  growing  rather  pale, 
"  and  I  knows  the  mare  too.  Why,  sir,  1  sold  him  that 
mare !" 

"  Did  he  pay  you  for  it  V 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  ;  he  gave  me  a  check  on  Coutts." 

"And  you  took  it!  My  eyes,  what  a  flat!"  Here 
Mr.  Sharp  closed  those  orbs  he  had  invoked,  and  whis- 
tled with  that  sort  of  self-hugging  dehght  which  men 
invariably  feel  when  another  man  is  taken  in. 


160  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Mr.  Sharp  became  evidently  nervous, 

"Why,  what  now!  You  don't  think  I'm  done  1  I 
did  not  let  him  have  the  mare  till  I  went  to  the  hotel, 
found  he  was  cutting  a  great  dash  there,  a  groom,  a 
pheaton,  and  a  fine  horse,  and  as  extravagant  as  the 
devil !" 

"  Oh  Lord  !  oh  Lord !  what  a  world  this  is !  What 
does  he  call  his-self  V 

"  Why,  here's  the  check — George  Frederic  De — de 
Burgh  Smith." 

"  Put  it  in  your  pipe,  my  man,  put  it  in  your  pipe ; 
not  worth  a  d — !" 

"  And  who  the  dense  are  you,  sirV  bawled  out  Mr. 
Stubmore,  in  an  equal  rage  both  with  himself  and  his 
guest. 

"  I,  sir,"  said  the  visiter,  rising  with  great  dignity, 
"  I,  sir,  am  of  the  great  Bow-street  Office,  and  my  name 
is  John  Sharp!" 

Mr.  Stubmore  nearly  fell  off  his  stool ;  his  eyes  rolled 
in  his  head,  and  his  teeth  chattered.  Mr.  Sharp  per- 
ceived the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and  continued, 

"  Yes,  sir;  and  I  could  have  much  to  say  against  that 
chap,  who  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  Dashing  Jerry, 
as  has  ruined  more  girls  and  more  tradesmen  than  any 
lord  in  the  land.  And  so  I  called  to  give  you  a  bit  of 
a  caution  ;  for,  says  I  to  myself, '  Mr.  Stubmore  is  a  re- 
spectable man.' " 

"  I  hope  I  am,  sir,"  said  the  crestfallen  horsedealer ; 
"  that  was  always  my  character." 

"And  a  father  of  a  family  1" 

"Three  boys  and  a  babe  at  the  buzzom,"  said  Mr. 
Stubmore,  pathetically. 

"  And  he  sha'n't  be  taken  in  if  I  can  help  it !  That 
'ere  young  man  as  I  am  arter,  you  see,  knows  Captain 
Smith — ha  !  ha  !  smell  a  rat  now,  eh  V 

"  Captain  Smith  said  he  knew  him — the  wiper !  and 
that's  what  made  me  so  green." 

"  Well,  we  must  not  be  hard  on  the  youngster  :  'cause 
why,  he  has  friends  as  is  gemmen.  But  you  tell  him 
to  go  back  to  his  poor  dear  relations,  and  all  shall  be  for- 
given ;  and  say  as  how  you  won't  keep  him ;  and  if  he 
don't  go  back,  he'll  have  to  get  his  livelihood  without  a 
carakter;  and  use  your  influence  with  him  like  a  man 
and  a  Christian,  and,  what's  more,  like  a  father  of  a  fam- 
ily— Mr.  Stubmore — with  three  boys  and  a  babe  at  the 
buzzom.    You  won't  keep  him  now]" 


NIGHT    AND   MORNINO.  161 

"  Keep  him  !  I  have  had  a  precious  escape.    I'd  bet- 
ter go  and  see  after  the  horse."" 

"I  doubt  if  you'll  find  him  :  the  captain  caught  a  sight 
of  me  this  morning.  Why,  he  lodges  at  our  hotel ! 
He's  off  by  this  time  !" 
"And  why  the  devil  did  you  let  him  go?" 
"  'Cause  I  had  no  writ  agin  him  !"  said  the  Bow-street 
officer;  and  he  walked  straight  out  of  the  counting- 
office,  satisfied  that  he  had  "done  the  job." 

To  snatch  his  hat — to  run  to  the  hotel — to  find  that 
Captain  Smith  had  indeed  gone  off  in  his  phaeton,  bag 
and  baggage,  the  same  as  he  came,  except  that  he  had 
now  two  horses  to  the  phaeton  instead  of  one,  having 
left  with  the  landlord  the  amount  of  his  bill  in  another 
check  upon  Coutts,  was  the  work  of  five  minutes 
with  Mr.  Stubmore.  He  returned  home,  panting  and 
purple  with  indignation  and  wounded  feeling. 

''  To  think  that  chap,  whom  I  took  into  my  yard  like 
a  son,  should  have  connived  at  this  !  'Taint  the  money 
— 'tis  the  willany  that  'flicts  me !"  muttered  Mr.  Stufc^- 
more,  as  he  re-entered  the  mews. 

Here  he  came  plump  upon  Philip,  who  said, 

"  Sir,  I  wished  to  see  you,  to  say  that  you  had  better 
take  care  of  Captain  Smith." 

"  Oh,  you  did,  did  you,  now  he's  gone?  'sconded  oflf 
to  America,  I  dare  say,  by  this  time.  Now  look  ye, 
young  man,  your  friends  are  after  you ;  I  won't  say 
anything  agin  you ;  but  you  go  back  to  them — I  wash 
my  hands  of  you.  Quite  too  much  for  me.  There's 
your  week,  and  never  let  me  catch  you  in  my  yard  agin, 
that's  all !" 

Philip  dropped  the  money  which  Stubmore  had  put 
into  his  hand.  "  My  friends  ! — friends  have  been  with 
you,  have  they  1  I  thought  so — I  thank  them.  And  so 
you  part  with  me  1  Well,  you  have  been  kind,  very 
kind  ;  let  us  part  kindly  ;"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Stubmore  was  softened ;  he  touched  the  hand 
held  out  to  him,  and  looked  doubtful  a  moment;  but 
Captain  De  Burgh  Smith's  check  for  eighty  guineas 
suddenly  rose  before  his  eyes.  He  turned  on  his  heel 
abruptly,  and  said,  over  his  shoulder, 

"  Don't  go  after  Captain  Smith  (he'll  come  to  the  gal- 
lows) ;  mend  your  ways,  and  be  ruled  by  your  poor  dear 
relatives,  whose  hearts  you  are  breaking." 

"Captain  Smith  !     Did  my  relations  tell  youV 
0  2 


162  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"Yes — yes — they  told  me  all — that  is,  they  sent  to 
tell  me  ;  so  you  see  I'm  d — d  soft  not  to  lay  hold  of 
you.  But  perhaps,  if  they  be  gemmen,  they'll  act  as 
sich,  and  cash  me  this  here  check  !" 

But  the  last  words  were  said  to  air.  Philip  had  rush- 
ed from  the  yard. 

With  a  heaving  breast,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body 
quivering  with  wrath,  the  proud,  unhappy  boy  strode 
through  the  gay  streets.  They  had  betrayed  him,  then, 
these  accursed  Beauforts !  They  circled  his  steps  with 
schemes  to  drive  him  like  a  deer  into  the  snare  of  their 
loathsome  charity !  The  roof  was  to  be  taken  from  his 
head,  the  bread  from  his  lips,  so  that  he  might  fawn 
at  their  knees  for  bounty.  "  But  they  shall  not  break 
my  spirit,  nor  steal  away  my  curse.  No,  my  dead 
mother,  never !" 

As  he  thus  muttered,  he  passed  through  a  patch  of 
waste  land  that  led  to  the  row  of  houses  in  which  his 
lodging  was  placed.  And  here  a  voice  called  to  him, 
and  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  and 
Arthur  Beaufort,  who  had  followed  him  from  the  street, 
stood  behind  him.  Philip  did  not,  at  the  first  glance, 
recognise  his  cousin.  Illness  had  so  altered  him,  and 
his  dress  was  so  different  from  that  in  which  he  had 
first  and  last  beheld  him.  The  contrast  between  the 
two  young  men  was  remarkable.  Philip  was  clad  in  the 
rough  garb  suited  to  his  late  calling :  a  jacket  of  black 
velveteen,  ill-fitting  and  ill-fashioned ;  loose  fustian  trow- 
sers,  coarse  shoes,  his  hat  set  deep  over  his  pent  eye- 
brows, his  raven  hair  long  and  neglected.  He  was  just 
at  that  age  when  one  with  strong  features  and  robust 
frame  is  at  the  worst  in  point  of  appearance  :  the  sin- 
ewy proportions  not  yet  sufficiently  fleshed,  and  seem- 
ing inharmonious  and  undeveloped,  precisely  in  propor- 
tion, perhaps,  to  the  symmetry  towards  which  they  in- 
sensibly mature  ;  the  contour  of  the  face  sharpened 
from  the  roundness  of  boyhood,  and  losing  its  bloom 
without  yet  acquiring  that  relief  and  shadow  which 
make  the  expression  and  dignity  of  the  masculine  coun- 
tenance. Thus  accoutred,  thus  gaunt  and  uncouth, 
stood  Morton.  Arthur  Benufort,  always  refined  in  his 
appearance,  seemed  yet  more  so  from  the  almost  fem- 
inine delicacy  which  ill  hoalth  threw  over  his  pale  com- 
plexion and  graceful  figure;  that  sort  of  unconscious 
elegance  which  belongs  to  the  dress  of  the  rich  when 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  163 

they  are  young — seen  most  in  minutiae — not  observable, 
perhaps,  by  themselves — marked  forcibly  and  painfully 
the  distinction  of  rank  between  the  two.  That  distinc- 
tion Beaufort  did  not  feel ;  but,  at  a  glance,  it  was  visible 
to  Philip. 

The  past  rushed  back  on  him.  The  sunny  lawn — the 
gun,  offered  and  rejected — the  pride  of  old,  much  less 
haughty  than  the  pride  of  to-day. 

"  Philip,"  said  Beaufort,  feebly,  "  they  tell  me  you 
will  not  accept  any  kindness  from  me  or  mine.  Ah  !  if 
if  you  knew  how  we  have  sought  you  !" 

"  Knew !"  cried  Philip,  savagely,  for  that  unlucky 
sentence  recalled  to  him  his  late  interview  with  his  em- 
ployer, and  his  present  destitution.  "  Knew  !  And  why 
have  you  dared  to  hunt  me  out,  and  halloo  me  down  ? 
Why  must  this  insolent  tyranny,  that  assumes  the  right 
over  these  limbs  and  this  free  will,  betray  and  expose 
me  and  my  wretchedness  wherever  1  turnV 

"  Your  poor  mother — "  began  Beaufort. 

"  Name  her  not  with  your  lips — name  her  not !"  cried 
Philip,  growing  livid  with  his  emotions.  "  Talk  not  of 
the  mercy — the  forethought — a  Beaufort  could  show  to 
her  and  her  offspring  !  I  accept  it  not — I  beheve  it  not. 
Oh,  yes  !  You  follow  me  now  with  your  false  kindness ; 
and  why?  Because  your  father — your  vain,  hollow, 
heartless  father — " 

"  Hold !"  said  Beaufort,  in  a  tone  of  such  reproach 
that  it  startled  the  wild  heart  on  which  it  fell;  "it  is 
ray  father  you  speak  of.     Let  the  son  respect  the  son." 

"  No — no — lio  !  I  will  respect  none  of  your  race.  I 
tell  you,  your  father  fears  me.  I  tell  you  that  my  last 
words  to  him  ring  in  his  ears  !  My  wrongs  !  Arthur 
Beaufort,  when  you  are  absent  I  seek  to  forget  them ; 
in  your  abhorred  presence  they  revive — they — " 

He  stopped,  almost  choked  with  his  passion ;  but  con- 
tinued instantly,  with  equal  intensity  of  fervour  : 

"  Were  yon  tree  the  gibbet,  and  to  touch  your  hand 
could  alone  save  me  from  it,  I  would  scorn  your  aid. 
Aid !  the  very  thouglit  fires  my  blood  and  nerves  my 
hand.  Aid!  Will  a  Beaufort  give  me  back  my  birth- 
right— restore  my  dead  mother's  fair  name  I  Minion  ! 
sleek,  dainty,  luxurious  minion  !  out  of  my  path  !  You 
have  my  fortune,  my  station,  my  rights;  I  have  but 
poverty,  and  hate,  and  disdain.  I  swear,  again  and 
again,  that  you  shall  not  purchase  these  from  me." 


164  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  But,  Philip — Philip,"  cried  Beaufort,  catching  his 
arm,  "  hear  one — hear  one  who  stood  by  your — " 

The  sentence  that  would  have  saved  the  outcast  from 
the  demons  that  were  darkening  and  swooping  round  his 
soul  died  upon  the  young  protector's  lips.  Blinded, 
maddened,  excited,  and  exasperated  almost  out  of  hu- 
manity itself,  Philip  fiercely,  brutally  swung  aside  the 
enfeebled  form  that  sought  to  cling  to  him,  and  Beau- 
fort fell  at  his  feet.  Morton  stopped — glared  at  him  with 
clinched  hands  and  a  smihng  lip — sprung  over  his  pros- 
trate form,  and  bounded  to  his  home. 

He  slackened  his  pace  as  he  neared  the  house,  and 
looked  behind;  but  Beaufort  had  not  followed  him.  He 
entered  the  house,  and  found  Sidney  in  the  room,  with 
a  countenance  so  much  more  gay  than  that  he  had  lately 
worn,  that,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  thought  and  passion, 
it  did  not  fail  to  strike  him. 

"  What  has  pleased  you,  Sidney  ■?" 

The  child  smiled. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  a  secret ;  I  was  not  to  tell  you.  But  I'm 
sure  you  are  not  the  naughty  boy  he  says  you  are." 

"  He  !     Who  ]" 

"  Don't  look  so  angry,  Philip  :  you  frighten  me  !" 

"  And  you  torture  me.  Who  could  malign  one  broth- 
er to  the  other  1" 

"  Oh  !  it  was  all  meant  very  kindly ;  there's  been 
euch  a  nice,  dear,  good  gentleman  here,  and  he  cried 
when  he  saw  me,  and  said  he  knew  dear  mamma. 
Well,  and  he  has  promised  to  take  me  home  with  him, 
and  give  me  a  pretty  pony — as  pretty — as  pretty — oh,  as 
pretty  as  it  can  be  got!  And  he  is  to  call  again  and  tell 
me  more  :  I  think  he  is  a  fairy,  Philip." 

"  Did  he  say  that  he  was  to  take  me  too,  Sidney  ]" 
said  Morton,  seating  himself,  and  looking  very  pale. 
At  that  question  Sidney  hung  his  head. 

"  No,  brother :  he  says  you  won't  go,  and  that  you 
are  a  bad  boy,  and  that  you  associate  with  wicked  peo- 
ple, and  that  you  want  to  keep  me  shut  up  here,  and  not 
let  any  one  be  good  to  me.  But  I  told  him  I  did  not  be- 
lieve that — yes,  indeed,  I  told  him  so." 

And  Sidney  endeavoured  caressingly  to  withdraw 
tlie  hands  that  hif<  brother  placed  before  his  face. 

Morton  starKid  u|),  aiul  walked  hastily  to  and  fro  the 
room.  "  This,"  thought  he,  "  is  another  emissary  of  the 
Beauforts— perhai)s  tlic  lawyer  :  they  will  talie  him  from 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  165 

me — the  last  thing  left  to  love  and  hope  for.     I  will  foil 
them.     Sidney,"  he   said  aloud,  "we  must  go   hence 
to-day — this  very  hour — nay,  instantly." 
"  What !  away  from  this  nice,  good  gentleman'?" 
"  Curse  him  !  yes,  away  from  him.     Do  not  cry — it  is 
of  no  use  ;  you  must  go." 

This  was  said  more  harshly  than  Philip  had  ever  yet 
spoken  to  Sidney  ;  and  when  he  had  said  it,  he  left  the 
room  to  settle  with  the  landlady  and  to  pack  up  their 
scanty  effects.  In  another  hour  the  brothers  had  turn- 
ed their  backs  on  the  town. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  I'll  carry  thee 
In  Sorrow's  arms  to  welcome  Misery." 

Hey  wood's  thickest  of  Suffolk. 

"  Who's  here  besides  foul  weather  ?" — Shakspe.ire  :  Lear. 

The  sun  was  as  bright  and  the  sky  as  calm  during 
this  journey  of  the  orphans  as  in  the  last.  They 
avoided,  as  before,  the  main  roads,  and  their  way  lay 
through  landscapes  that  might  have  charmed  a  Gains- 
borough's eye  :  Autumn  scattered  his  last  hues  of  gold 
over  the  various  foliage,  and  the  poppy  glowed  from  the 
hedges,  and  the  wild  convolvuluses,  here  and  there,  still 
gleamed  on  the  wayside  with  a  parting  smile. 

At  times,  over  the  sloping  stubbles,  broke  the  sound 
of  the  sportsman's  gun  ;  and  ever  and  anon,  by  stream 
and-  sedge,  they  startled  the  shy  wild-fowl,  just  come 
from  the  far  lands,  nor  yet  settled  in  the  new  haunts  too 
soon  to  be  invaded. 

But  there  was  no  longer  in  the  travellers  the  same 
hearts  that  had  made  light  of  hardship  and  fatigue. 
Sidney  was  no  longer  flying  from  a  harsh  master,  and 
his  step  was  not  elastic  with  the  energy  of  fear  that 
looked  behind,  and  of  hope  that  smiled  before.  He  was 
going  a  toilsome,  weary  journey,  he  knew  not  why  nor 
whither ;  just,  too,  when  he  had  made  a  friend,  whose 
soothing  words  haunted  his  chikliah  fancy.  He  was 
displeased  with  Philip,  and,  ia  sullen  and  silent  thought- 


166  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

fulness,  slowly  plodded  b'ehind  him ;  and  Morton  himself 
was  gloomy,  and  knew  not  where  in  the  world  to  seek 
a  future. 

They  arrived  at  dusk  at  a  small  inn,  not  so  far  distant 
from  the  town  they  had  left  as  Morton  could  have 
•wished ;  but  then  the  days  were  shorter  than  in  their 
first  flight. 

They  were  shown  into  a  small  sanded  parlour,  which 
Sidney  eyed  with  great  disgust ;  nor  did  he  seem  more 
pleased  with  the  hacked  and  jagged  leg  of  cold  mutton 
which  was  all  that  the  hostess  set  before  them  for  sup- 
per. Philip  in  vain  endeavoured  to  cheer  him  up,  and 
ate  to  set  him  the  example.  He  felt  relieved  when, 
under  the  auspices  of  a  good-looking,  good-natured 
chambermaid,  Sidney  retired  to  rest,  and  he  was  left  in 
the  parlour  to  his  own  meditations.  Hitherto  it  had 
been  a  happy  thing  for  Morton  that  he  had  had  some 
one  dependant  on  him  ;  that  feeling  had  given  him  per- 
severance, patience,  fortitude,  and  hope.  But  now,  dis- 
pirited and  sad,  he  felt  rather  the  horror  of  being  respon- 
sible for  a  human  life,  without  seeing  the  means  to  dis- 
charge the  trust.  It  was  clear,  even  to  his  experience, 
that  he  was  not  likely  to  find  another  employer  as  facile 
as  Mr.  Stubmore ;  and,  wherever  he  went,  he  felt  as  if 
his  Destiny  stalked  at  his  back.  He  took  out  his  little 
fortune  and  spread  it  on  the  table,  counting  it  over  and 
over ;  it  had  remained  pretty  stationary  since  his  ser- 
vice with  Mr.  Stubmore,  for  Sidney  had  swallowed  up 
the  wages  of  his  hire.  While  thus  employed,  the  door 
opened,  and  the  chambermaid,  showing  in  a  gentleman, 
said,  "  We  have  no  other  room,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then — I'm  not  particular ;  a  tumbler  of 
braundy  and  water,  stiflish,  cold — without — the  news- 
paper— and  a  cigar.    You'll  excuse  smoking,  sir  V 

Philip  looked  up  from  his  hoard,  and  Captain  De  Burgh 
Smith  stood  before  him. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  latter,  "  well  met !"  And,  closing  the 
door,  he  took  off  his  greatcoat,  seated  himself  near 
Philip,  and  bent  both  his  eyes  with  considerable  wistful- 
ness  on  the  neat  rows  into  which  Philip's  bank-notes, 
sovereigns,  and  shillings  were  arrayed. 

"  Pretty  little  sum  for  pocket-money ;  caush  in  hand 
goes  a  great  way,  properly  invested.  You  must  have 
been  very  lucky.  Well,  so  I  suppose  you  are  surprised 
to  see  me  here  without  my  pheatoul" 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  167 

*'  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you  at  all,"  replied  Philip, 
uncourteously,  and  restoring  his  money  to  his  pocket ; 
"your  fraud  upon  Mr.  Stubinore,  and  your  assurance 
that  you  knew  me,  have  sent  me  adrift  upon  the  world." 

"  What's  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison," 
said  the  captain,  philosophically  ;  "rfo  use  fretting;  care 
killed  a  cat.  I  am  as  badly  off  as  you  ;  for,  hang  me,  if 
there  was  not  a  Bow-street  runner  in  the  town.  I 
caught  his  eye  fixed  on  me  like  a  gimlet,  so  1  bolted ; 

went  to  N ,  left  my  pheaton  and  groom  there  for  the 

present,  and  have  doubled  back,  to  baffle  pursuit,  and 
cut  across  the  country.  You  recollect  that  noice  girl 
we  saw  in  the  coach :  'gad,  I  served  her  spouse  that  is 
to  be  a  pretty  trick !  Borrowed  his  money  under  pre- 
tence of  investing  it  in  the  New  Grand  Anti-Dry-Rot 
Company — cool  hundred — it's  only  just  gone,  sir." 

Here  the  chambermaid  entered  with  the  brandy  and 
water,  the  newspaper,  and  cigar  ;  the  captain  lighted  the 
last,  took  a  deep  sup  at  the  beverage,  and  said  gayly, 

*'  Well,  now,  let  us  join  fortunes  ;  we  are  both,  as  you 
say,  '  adrift.'  Best  way  to  staund  the  breeze  is  to  unite 
the  caubles." 

Philip  shook  his  head,  and,  displeased  with  his  com- 
panion, sought  his  pillow.  He  took  care  to  put  his 
money  under  his  head  and  to  lock  his  door. 

The  brothers  started  at  daybreak ;  Sidney  was  even 
more  discontented  than  on  the  previous  day.  The 
weather  was  hot  and  oppressive ;  they  rested  for  some 
hours  at  noon,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  renewed 
their  way.  Philip  had  made  up  his  mind  to  steer  for  a, 
town  in  the  thick  of  a  himting  district,  where  he  hoped 
his  equestrian  capacities  might  again  befriend  him  ;  and 
their  path  now  lay  through  a  chain  of  vast,  dreary  com- 
mons, which  gave  them,  at  least,  the  advantage  to  skirt 
the  roadside  unobserved.  But,  somehow  or  other,  either 
Philip  had  been  misinformed  as  to  an  inn  where  he  had 
proposed  to  pass  the  night,  or  he  had  missed  it ;  for  the 
clouds  darkened,  and  the  sun  went  down,  and  no  vestige 
of  human  habitation  was  discernible.  Sidney,  footsore 
and  querulous,  began  to  weep,  and  declare  that  he  could 
stir  no  farther ;  and  while  Philip,  whose  iron  frame  de- 
fied fatigue,  compassionately  paused  to  rest  his  brother, 
a  low  roll  of  thunder  broke  upon  the  gloomy  air. 
"There  will  be  a  storm,''  said  he,  anxiously.  "Come 
on — pray,  Sidney,  come  on," 


168  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  It  is  SO  cruel  in  you,  brother  Philip,"  replied  Sidney, 
sobbing.     "  I  wish  I  had  never,  never  gone  with  you." 

A  flash  of  lightning,  that  illuminated  the  whole  heav- 
ens, lingered  round  Sidney's  pale  face  as  he  spoke  ;  and 
Philip  threw  himself  instinctively  on  the  child,  as  if  to 
protect  him  even  from  the  wrath  of  the  unshelterable 
flame.  Sidney,  hushed  and  terrified,  clung  to  his  broth- 
er's breast ;  after  a  pause,  he  silently  consented  to  re- 
sume their  journey.  But  now  the  storm  came  near  and 
nearer  to  the  wanderers.  The  darkness  grew  rapidly 
more  intense,  save  when  the  lightning  lit  up  heaven  and 
earth  alike  with  intolerable  lustre.  And  when  at  length 
the  rain  began  to  fall  in  merciless  and  drenching  torrents, 
even  Philip's  brave  heart  failed  him.  How  could  he  ask 
Sidney  to  proceed,  when  they  could  scarcely  see  an  inch 
before  them  1  All  that  could  now  be  done  was  to  gain 
the  high  road,  and  hope  for  some  passing  conveyance. 
With  fits  and  starts,  and  by  the  glare  of  the  lightning, 
they  attained  their  object,  and  stood  at  last  on  the  great 
broad  thoroughfare,  along  which,  since  the  day  when  the 
Roman  carved  it  from  the  waste.  Misery  hath  plodded 
and  Luxury  rolled  their  common  way. 

Philip  had  stripped  handkerchief,  coat,  vest,  all  to 
shelter  Sidney ;  and  he  felt  a  kind  of  strange  pleasure 
through  the  dark  even  to  hear  Sidney's  voice  wail  and 
moan.  But  that  voice  grew  at  last  more  languid  and 
faint — it  ceased — Sidney's  weight  hung  heavy — heavier 
on  the  fostering  arm. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  speak !  Speak,  Sidney !  only 
one  word.     I  will  carry  you  in  my  arms !" 

"  I  think  I  am  dying,"  replied  Sichiey,  in  a  low  mur- 
mur ;  "  I  am  so  tired  and  worn  out,  I  can  go  no  farther — 
I  must  lie  here."  And  he  sunk  at  once  upon  the  reek- 
ing grass  beside  the  road.  At  this  time  the  rain  gradu- 
ally relaxed,  the  clouds  broke  away,  a  gray  light  suc- 
ceeded to  the  darkness,  the  liglitning  was  more  distant, 
and  the  thunder  rolled  onward  in  its  awful  path.  Kneel- 
ing on  tlie  ground,  I'hilip  supported  his  brother  in  his 
arms,  and  cast  his  pleading  eyes  upward  to  tlie  softening 
terrors  of  the  sky.  A  star — a  solitary  star — broke  out 
for  one  moment,  as  if  to  smile  comfort  upon  him,  and 
then  vanished.  But,  lo  !  in  th(!  distance  there  suddenly 
gleamed  a  red,  steady  liglit,  like  that  in  some  soUtarv 
window ;  it  was  no  will  o'-the-wisp,  it  was  too  statioiT- 
ary  ;  human  shelter  was  then  nearer  than  he  had  thought 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  169 

for.    He  pointed  to  the  light,  and  whispered,  "  Rouse 
yourself—one  struggle  more — it  cannot  be  far  off." 

"  It  is  impossible — I  cannot  stir,"  answered  Sidney ; 
and  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning  showed  his  countenance, 
ghastly,  as  if  with  the  damps  of  death.  What  could  the 
brother  do  1 — stay  there,  and  see  the  boy  perish  before 
his  eyes  ^ — leave  him  on  the  road,  and  fly  to  the  friendly 
light  1  The  last  plan  was  the  sole  one  left,  yet  he  shrunk 
from  it  in  greater  terror  than  the  first.  Was  that  a  step 
that  he  heard  across  the  road  1  He  held  his  breath  to 
listen  ;  a  form  became  dimly  visible — it  approached. 

Philip  shouted  aloud. 

"  Wliat  now  V  answered  the  voice  ;  and  it  seemed  fa- 
mihar  to  Morton's  ear.  He  sprung  forward,  and,  put- 
ting his  face  close  to  the  wayfarer,  thought  to  recognise 
the  features  of  Captain  De  Burgh  Smith.  The  captain, 
whose  eyes  were  yet  more  accustomed  to  the  dark, 
made  the  first  overture. 

"  Why,  my  lad,  it  is  you,  then !  Gad,  you  frightened 
me!" 

Odious  as  this  man  had  hitherto  been  to  Philip,  he  was 
as  welcome  to  him  as  daylight  now ;  he  grasped  his 
hand  :  "  My  brother — a  child— is  here,  dying,  I  fear,  with 
•cold  and  fatigue ;  he  cannot  stir.  Will  you  stay  with 
him — support  him — but  for  a  few  moments,  while  I  make 
to  yon  Ught!     See,  I  have  money — plenty  of  money  !" 

"  My  good  lad,  it  is  very  ugly  work  staying  here  at 
this  hour :  still — where's  the  child  ■?" 

"  Here,  here  !  make  haste  !  raise  him !  that's  right ! 
God  bless  you  !    I  shall  be  back  ere  you  think  me  gone." 

He  sprung  from  the  road,  and  plunged  through  the 
heath,  the  furze,  the  rank,  glistening  pools,  straight  to- 
wards the  light,  as  the  swimmer  towards  the  shore. 

The  captain,  though  a  rogue,  was  human ;  and  when 
life — an  innocent  life — is  at  stake,  even  a  rogue's  heart 
rises  up  from  its  silent  and  weedy  bed.  He  muttered  a 
few  oaths,  it  is  true,  but  he  held  the  child  in  his  arms, 
and,  taking  out  a  little  tin  case,  poured  some  brandy  down 
Sidney's  throat,  and  then,  by  way  of  company,  down 
his  own.  The  cordial  revived  the  boy ;  he  opened  his 
eyes,  and  said,  "  I  think  I  can  go  on  now,  Philip." 

We  must  return  to  Arthur  Beaufort.  He  was  natural- 
ly, though  gentle,  a  person  of  high  spirit,  and  not  with- 
out pride.  He  rose  from  the  ground  with  bitter,  resent- 
ful feelings  and  a  blushing  cheek,  and  went  his  way  to 

Vol.  I.— P 


170  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

the  hotel.  Here  he  found  Mr.  Spencer  just  returned 
from  his  visit  to  Sidney.  Enchanted  with  the  soft  and 
endearing  manners  of  his  lost  Catharine's  son,  and 
deeply  affected  with  the  resemblance  the  child  bore  to 
the  mother  as  he  had  seen  her  last  at  the  gay  and  rosy 
age  of  fair  sixteen,  his  description  of  the  younger 
brother  drew  Beaufort's  indignant  thoughts  from  the 
elder.  He  cordially  concurred  with  Mr.  Spencer  in  the 
wish  to  save  one  so  gentle  from  the  domination  of  one 
so  fierce  ;  and  this,  after  all,  was  the  child  Catharine 
had  most  strongly  commended  to  him.  She  had  said 
little  of  the  elder ;  perhaps  she  had  been  aware  of  his 
ungracious  and  untractable  nature,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
Beaufort,  his  predilections  for  a  coarse  and  low  career. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  '•  this  boy,  then,  shall  console  me  for 
the  perverse  brutality  of  the  other.  He  shall  indeed 
drink  of  my  cup,  and  eat  of  my  bread,  and  be  to  me  as 
a  brother." 

"  What !"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  changing  countenance, 
"  you  do  not  intend  to  take  Sidney  to  live  with  you  ?  I 
meant  him  for  my  son — my  adopted  son." 

"  No ;  generous  as  you  are,"  said  Arthur,  pressing 
his  hand,  "  this  charge  devolves  on  me  ;  it  is  my  right. 
I  am  the  orphan's  relation ;  his  mother  consigned  him 
to  me.  But  he  shall  be  taught  to  love  you  not  the 
less." 

Mr.  Spencer  vv^as  silent.  He  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  losing  Sidney  as  an  inmate  of  his  cheerless 
home,  a  tender  relic  of  his  early  love.  From  that 
moment  he  began  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  se^ 
curing  Sidney  to  himself,  unknown  to  Beaufort. 

The  plans  both  of  Arthur  and  Spencer  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  sudden  retreat  of  the  brotliers.  They  de- 
termined to  depart  different  ways  in  search  of  them. 
Spencer,  as  the  more  helpless  of  the  two,  obtained  the 
aid  of  Mr.  Sharp  ;  Beaufort  departed  with  the  lawyer. 

Two  travellers,  in  a  hired  barouche,  were  slowly 
dragged  by  a  pair  of  jaded  posters  along  the  commons 
I  have  just  described. 

'*  I  think,"  said  one,  "  that  the  storm  is  very  much 
abated.     Heighho  !  what  an  unpleasant  night !" 

"  Unkimmon  ugly,  sir,"  answered  the  other  ;  "  and 
an  awful  long  stage,  cigiiteon  miles.  These  here  re- 
mote plac(!s  are  quite  behind  the  ag(!,  sir — quite.  How- 
ever, 1  think  we  shall  kitch  them  now." 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  171 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  that  eldest  boy,  Sharp. 
He  seems  a  dreadful  vagabond." 

"  You  see,  sir,  quite  hand  in  glove  with  Dashing  Jer- 
ry— met  in  the  same  inn  last  night — preconcerted,  you 
may  be  quite  sure.  It  would  be  the  best  day's  job  I 
have  done  this  many  a  day  to  save  that  ere  little  feller 
from  being  corrupted.  You  sees  he  is  just  of  a  size  to 
be  useful  to  these  bad  karakters.  If  they  took  to  bur- 
glary, he  would  be  a  treasure  to  them  :  slip  him  through 
a  pane  of  glass  like  a  ferret,  sir." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  Sharp,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  with  a 
groan  ;  "  and,  recollect,  if  we  get  hold  of  him,  that  you 
are  not  to  say  a  word  to  Mr.  Beaufort." 

"  I  understand,  sir  ;  and  I  always  goes  with  the  gem- 
man  who  behaves  most  like  a  geminan." 

Here  a  loud  halloo  was  heard  close  by  the  horses' 
heads. 

"Good  Heavens,  if  that  is  a  footpad!"  said  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, shaking  violently. 

"  Lord,  sir,  I  have  my  barkers  with  me.  Who's 
there  V 

The  barouche  stopped  :  a  man  came  to  the  window. 
.  "  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  but  there  is  a 
poor  boy  here  so  tired  and  ill  that  1  fear  he  will  never 
reach  the  next  toon  unless  you  will  koindly  give  him  a 
lift." 

"  A  poor  boy !"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  poking  his  head 
over  the  head  of  Mr.  Sharp.     "  Where  V 

"  If  you  would  just  drop  him  at  the  King's  Awrms 
it  would  be  a  chaurity,"  said  the  man. 

Sharp  pinched  Mr.  Spencer  on  the  shoulder.  "  That's 
Dashing  Jerry  :  I'll  get  out."  So  saying,  he  opened  the 
door,  jumped  into  the  road,  and  presently  reappeared 
with  the  lost  and  welcome  Sidney  in  his  arms.  "  Ben't 
this  the  boy  V  he  whispered  to  Mr.  Spencer ;  and,  ta- 
king the  lamp  from  the  carriage,  he  raised  it  to  the 
child's  face.  "  It  is  !  it  is  !  God  be  thanked !"  exclaim- 
ed the  worthy  man. 

"  Will  you  leave  him  at  the  King's  Awrms  ?  We  shall 
be  there  in  an  hour  or  two,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  We  !     Who's  we  .?"  said  Sharp,  gruffly. 

"  Why,  myself  and  the  child's  brother." 

"  Oh !"  said  Sharp,  raising  the  lantern  to  his  own 
face,  "  you  knows  me,  I  think,  Master  Jerry  ^  Let  me 
kitch  you  again,  that's  all.    And  give  my  compliments 


172  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

to  your  'sociate,  and  say,  if  he  prosecutes  this  here 
hurchin  any  more,  we'll  settle  his  business  for  him  ;  and 
so  take  a  hint  and  make  yourself  scarce,  old  boy  !" 

With  that  Mr.  Sharp  jumped  into  the  barouche,  and 
bade  the  postboy  drive  on  as  fast  as  he  could. 

Ten  minutes  after  this  abduction,  Philip,  followed  by 
two  labourers,  with  a  barrow,  a  lantern,  and  two  blan- 
kets, returned  from  the  hospitable  farm  to  which  the 
light  had  conducted  him.  The  spot  where  he  had  left 
Sidney,  and  which  he  knew  by  a  neighbouring  mile- 
stone, was  vacant ,  he  shouted  in  alarm,  and  the  captain 
answered  from  the  distance  of  some  threescore  yards. 
Philip  came  to  him.     "  Where  is  my  brother  V 

"  Gone  away  in  a  barouche  and  pair.  Devil  take  me 
if  I  understand  it."  And  the  captain  proceeded  to  give 
a  confused  account  of  what  had  passed. 

"  My  brother !  my  brother !  they  have  torn  thee  from 
me,  then !"  cried  Philip ;  and  he  fell  to  the  earth  insen- 
sible. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Vous  me  rendrez  raon  fr^re  !" 

Casimer  Delavione  ;  Les  Enfana  cfEdovard. 

One  evening,  a  week  after  this  event,  a  wild,  tattered, 
haggard  youth  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort. 

The  porter  slowly  presented  himself. 

"  Is  your  master  at  home  ]     I  must  see  him  instantly." 

"  That's  more  than  you  can,  my  man ;  my  master 
does  not  see  the  like  of  you  this  time  of  night,"  replied 
the  porter,  eying  the  ragged  apparition  before  him  with 
great  disdain. 

"  See  me  he  must  and  shall,"  replied  the  young  man ; 
and,  as  the  porter  blocked  up  the  entrance,  he  grasped 
his  collar  with  a  hand  of  iron,  swung  him,  huge  as  he 
was,  aside,  and  strode  into  the  spacious  hall. 

"  Stop !  stop !"  cried  the  porter,  recovering  himself. 
"  James  I  John !  here's  a  go  !" 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  had  been  back  in  town  several 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING,  178 

days.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  was  waiting  his  return  from 
his  club,  was  in  the  dining-room.  Hearing  a  noise  in 
the  hall,  she  opened  the  door,  and  saw  the  strange,  grim 
figure  I  have  described  advancing  towards  her.  "  Who 
are  you  f  she  said  ;  "  what  do  you  want  V 

"  I  am  Philip  Morton.     Who  are  you  V 

"  My  husband,''  said  Mrs.  Beaufort,  shrinking  into  the 
parlour,  while  Morton  followed  her  and  closed  the  door, 
"  my  husband,  Mr.  Beaufort,  is  not  at  home." 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Beaufort,  then  !  W'ell,  you  can  un- 
derstand me.  I  want  my  brother.  He  has  been  basely 
reft  from  me.  Tell  me  where  he  is,  and  I  will  forgive 
all.  Restore  him  to  me,  and  I  will  bless  you  and  yours." 
And  Philip  fell  on  his  knees,  and  grasped  the  train  of  her 
gown. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  your  brother,  Mr.  Morton,"  cried 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  surprised  and  alarmed.  "  Arthur,  whom 
we  expect  every  day,  writes  us  word  that  ail  search  for 
him  has  been  in  vain." 

"Ha!  you  admit  the  search V  cried  Morton,  rising 
and  clinching  his  hands.  "  And  who  else  but  you  or 
yours  would  have  parted  brother  and  brother?  Answer 
me  where  he  is.  No  subterfuge,  madam :  I  am  des- 
perate !" 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  though  a  woman  of  that  worldly  cold- 
ness and  indifference  which,  on  ordinary  occasions,  sup- 
ply the  place  of  courage,  was  extremely  terrified  by  the 
tone  and  mien  of  her  rude  guest.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
the  bell,  but  Morton  seized  her  arm,  and,  holding  it 
sternly,  said,  while  his  dark  eyes  shot  fire  through  the 
glimmering  room,  "  1  will  not  stir  hence  till  you  have 
told  me.  Will  you  reject  my  gratitude — my  blessing? 
Beware  !     Again,  where  have  you  hid  my  brother?" 

At  thai  instant  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort entered.  The  lady,  with  a  shriek  of  joy,  wrenched 
herself  from  Philip's  grasp,  and  flew  to  her  husband. 

"  Save  me  from  this  ruflian  !"  she  said,  with  an  hys- 
terical sob. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  heard  from  Blackwell  strange 
accounts  of  Philip's  obdurate  pervcrseness,  vile  associ- 
ates, and  unredeemable  character,  was  roused  from  his 
usual  timidity  by  the  appeal  of  his  wife. 

"  Insolent  reprobate  !"  he   said,  advancing  to  Philip  ; 
"  after  all  the  absurd  goodness  of  my  son  and  myself — 
after  rejecting  all  our  offers,  and  persisting  in  your  mis- 
P2 


174  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

erable  and  vicious  conduct,  how  dare  you  presume  to 
force  yourself  into  this  house  ?  Begone,  or  I  will  send 
for  the  constables  to  remove  you  !" 

"  Man — man,"  cried  Philip,  restraining  the  fury  that 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  "  I  care  not  for  your 
threats — I  scarcely  hear  your  abuse  :  your  son  or  your- 
self have  stolen  away  my  brother ;  tell  me  only  where 
he  is  ;  let  me  see  him  once  more.  Do  not  drive  me 
hence  without  one  word  of  justice — of  pity.  I  implore 
you — on  my  knees  I  implore  you — yes,  1,  /  implore  you, 
Robert  Beaufort,  to  have  mercy  on  your  brother's  son. 
Where  is  Sidney  V 

Like  all  mean  and  cowardly  men,  Robert  Beaufort 
was  rather  encouraged  than  softened  by  Philip's  abrupt 
humility. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  your  brother  ;  and,  if  this  is  not 
all  some  villanous  trick — which  it  may  be — I  am  hear- 
tily rejoiced  that  he,  poor  child !  is  rescued  from  the 
contamination  of  such  a  companion,"  answered  Beau- 
fort. 

"  I  am  at  your  feet  still ;  again,  for  the  last  time, 
clinging  to  you,  a  suppUant :  I  pray  you  to  tell  me  the 
truth." 

Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and  more  exasperated  by  Mor- 
ton's forbearance,  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  ;  when, 
at  that  moment,  one  hitherto  unobserved — one  who,  ter- 
rified by  the  scene  she  had  witnessed  but  could  not  com- 
prehend, had  slunk  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room — now 
came  from  her  retreat.  And  a  child's  soft  voice  was 
heard,  saying, 

"  Do  not  strike  him,  papa !    Let  him  have  his  brother !" 

Mr.  Beaufort's  arm  fell  to  his  side :  kneeling  before 
him,  and  by  the  outcast's  side,  was  his  own  young 
daughter ;  she  had  crept  into  the  room  unobserved  when 
her  father  entered.  Through  the  dim  shadows,  relieved 
only  by  the  red  and  fitful  gleam  of  the  fire,  he  saw  her 
fair  meek  face  looking  up  wistfully  at  his  own,  with 
tears  of  excitement,  and  perhaps  of  pity — for  children 
have  a  quick  insight  into  the  reality  of  grief  in  those  not 
far  removed  from  their  own  years — glistening  in  her 
soft  eyes.  Philip  looked  round  bewildered  ;  and  he  saw 
that  face,  which  seemed  to  him,  at  such  a  time,  like  the 
face  of  an  angel. 

"  Hear  her  !"  he  murmured :  "  oh,  hear  her !  For  her 
sake,  do  not  sever  one  orphan  from  the  other !" 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  175 

"  Take  away  that  child,  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  cried  Robert, 
angrily.  "  Will  you  let  her  disgrace  herself  thus  ?  And 
you,  sir,  begone  from  this  roof;  and  when  you  can  ap- 
proach me  with  due  respect,  I  will  give  you,  as  I  said  I 
would,  the  means  to  get  an  honest  living !" 

Philip  rose  :  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  already  led  away  her 
daughter,  and  she  took  that  opportunity  of  sending  in 
the  servants  :  their  forms  filled  up  the  doorway. 

"  Will  you  go,"  continued  Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and 
more  imboldened  as  he  saw  the  menials  at  hand,  "  or 
shall  they  expel  you  V 

"  It  is  enough,  sir,"  said  Philip,  with  a  sudden  calm  and 
dignity  that  surprised,  and  almost  awed  his  uncle.  "  My 
father,  if  the  dead  yet  watch  over  the  Uving,  has  seen 
and  heard  you.  There  will  come  a  day  for  justice. 
Out  of  my  path,  hirelings  !" 

He  waved  his  arm,  and  the  menials  shrunk  back  at 
his  tread,  stalked  across  the  inhospitable  hall,  and  van- 
ished. 

When  he  had  gained  the  street,  he  turned  and  looked 
up  at  the  house.  His  dark  and  hollow  eyes,  gleaming 
through  the  long  and  raven  hair  that  fell  profusely  over 
his  face,  had  in  them  an  expression  of  menace  almost 
preternatural  from  its  settled  calmness ;  the  wild  and 
untutored  majesty,  which,  through  rags  and  squalor, 
never  deserted  his  form,  as  it  never  does  the  forms  of 
men  in  whom  the  will  is  strong  and  the  sense  of  injus- 
tice deep — the  outstretched  arm — the  haggard,  but  no- 
ble features — the  bloomless  and  scathed  youth — all  gave 
to  his  features  and  his  stature  an  aspect  awful  in  its  sin- 
ister and  voiceless  wrath.  There  he  stood  a  moment, 
like  one  to  whom  wo  and  wrong  have  given  a  prophet's 
power,  guiding  the  eye  of  the  unforgetful  Fate  to  the 
roof  of  the  oppressor.  Then  slowly,  and  with  a  half 
smile,  he  turned  away,  and  strode  through  the  streets 
till  he  arrived  at  one  of  the  narrow  lanes  that  intersect 
the  more  equivocal  quarters  of  the  huge  city.  He  stop- 
ped at  the  private  entrance  of  a  small  pawnbroker's 
shop ;  the  door  was  opened  by  a  slipshod  boy ;  he  as- 
cended the  dingy  stairs  till  he  came  to  the  second  floor ; 
and  there,  in  a  small  back  room,  he  found  Captain  De 
Burgh  Smith,  seated  before  a  table  with  a  couple  of  can- 
dles on  it,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  playing  at  cards  by  him- 
self. 

**  Well,  what  news  of  your  brother,  Bully  PhiU" 


176  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

"  None  :  they  will  reveal  nothing." 

"  Do  you  give  him  up?" 

"  Never!     My  hope  now  is  in  you !" 

"  Well,  I  thought  you  would  be  driven  to  come  to  me, 
and  I  will  do  something  for  you  that  I  should  not  like  to 
do  for  myself.  I  told  you  that  I  knew  the  Bow-street 
runner  who  was  in  the  barouche.  I  will  find  him  out — 
Heaven  knows,  that  is  easily  done — and,  if  you  can  pay 
well,  you  will  get  your  news." 

"  You  shall  have  all  I  possess  if  you  restore  my  broth- 
er. See  what  it  is — one  hundred  pounds — it  was  his 
fortune.  It  is  useless  to  me  without  him.  There,  take 
fifty  now,  and  if — " 

Phihp  stopped,  for  his  voice  trembled  too  much  to  al- 
low him  farther  speech.  Captain  Smith  thrust  the  notes 
into  his  pocket,  and  said, 

"  We'll  consider  it  settled." 

Captain  Smith  fulfilled  his  promise.  Vie  saw  the 
Bow-street  officer.  Mr.  Sharp  had  been  bribed  too  high 
by  the  opposite  party  to  tell  tales,  and  he  willingly  en- 
couraged the  suspicion  that  Sidney  was  under  the  care 
of  the  Beauforts.  He  promised,  however,  for  the  sake 
of  ten  guineas,  to  procure  Philip  a  letter  from  Sidney 
himself.     This  was  all  he  would  undertake. 

Philip  was  satisfied.  At  the  end  of  another  week, 
Mr.  Sharp  transmitted  to  the  captain  a  letter,  which  he, 
in  his  turn,  gave  to  Philip.  It  ran  thus,  in  Sidney's  own 
sprawling  liand : 

"  Dear  Brother  Philip, — 1  am  told  you  wish  to  know 
how  I  am,  and  therfore  take  up  my  pen,  and  assure  you 
that  I  write  all  out  of  ray  own  head.  "  I  am  very  com- 
fortable and  happy — much  more  so  than  I  have  been 
since  poor  deir  mama  died ;  so  I  beg  you  won't  vex 
yourself  about  me  :  and  pray  don't  try  and  Find  me  out, 
For  I  would  not  go  with  you  again  for  the  world.  I  am 
so  much  better  off  here.  I  wish  you  would  be  a  good 
lioy,  and  leave  off  your  Bad  ways  ;  for  I  am  sure,  as  ev- 
ery one  says,  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of 

me  if  I  had  staid  with  you.     Mr.  [the  Mr.  half 

scratched  out],  the  gentleman  1  am  with,  says,  if  you 
turn  out  properly,  he  will  he  a  friend  to  yoti  too  ;  but  he 
advises  you  to  go,  like  a  (iood  boy,  to  Arthur  Beaufort, 
and  ask  his  pardon  for  th(^  past,  and  then  Arthur  will  be 
very  kind  to  you.     I  send  you  a  great  big  sum  of  jC20, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  177 

and  the  gentleman  says  he  would  send  more,  only  it 
might  make  you  naughty,  and  set  up.  I  go  to  church 
now  every  Sunday,  and  read  good  books,  and  always 
pray  that  God  may  open  your  eyes.  I  have  such  a  nice 
pony,  with  such  a  long  tale.  So  no  more  at  present 
from  your  affectionate  brother, 

"  Sidney  Morton. 

"  Oct.  8,  18—. 

"Pray,  pray  don't  come  after  me  any  more.  You 
know  I  neerly  died  of  it,  but  for  this  deir  good  gentle- 
man I  am  with." 

So  this,  then,  was  the  crowning  reward  of  all  his  suf- 
ferings and  all  his  love.  There  was  the  letter,  evident- 
ly undictated,  with  its  errors  of  orthography,  and  in  the 
child's  rough  scrawl :  the  serpent's  tooth  pierced  to  the 
heart,  and  left  there  its  most  lasting  venom. 

"  I  have  done  with  him  for  ever,"  said  Philip,  brush- 
ing away  the  bitter  tears.  "  I  will  molest  him  no  far- 
ther :  I  care  no  more  to  pierce  this  mystery.  Better  for 
him  as  it  is  :  he  is  happy  !  Well,  well,  and  1 — /  will 
never  care  for  a  human  being  again." 

He  bowed  his  head  over  his  hands,  and  when  he  rose, 
his  heart  felt  to  him  like  stone.  It  seemed  as  if  Con- 
science herself  had  fled  from  his  soul  on  the  wings  of 
departed  Love. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

"  But  you  have  found  the  mountain's  top :  there  sit 
On  the  calm,  flourishing  head  of  it ; 
And  while  with  wearied  seeps  we  upward  go, 
See  us  and  clouds  below." — Cowlky. 

It  was  true  that  Sidney  was  happy  in  his  new  home, 
and  thither  we  must  now  trace  him. 

On  reaching  the  town  where  the  travellers  in  the  ba- 
rouche had  been  requested  to  leave  Sidney,  "  The  King's 
Arms"  was  precisely  the  inn  eschewed  by  Mr.  Spencer. 
While  the  horses  were  being  changed,  he  summoned 
the  surgeon  of  the  town  to  examine  the  child,  who  had 
already  much  recovered ;  and,  by  stripping  his  clothes, 


178  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

wrapping  him  m  warm  blankets,  and  administering  cor- 
dials, he  was  permitted  to  reach  another  stage,  so  as  to 
baffle  pursuit  that  night ;  and  in  three  days  Mr.  Spencer 
had  placed  his  new  charge  with  his  maiden  sisters,  150 
miles  from  the  spot  where  he  had  been  found.  He  would 
not  take  him  to  his  own  home  yet.  He  feared  the 
claims  of  Arthur  Beaufort.  He  artfully  wrote  to  that 
gentleman,  stating  that  he  had  abandoned  the  chase  of 
Sidney  in  despair,  and  desiring  to  know  if  he  had  discov- 
ered him ;  and  a  bribe  of  jG300  to  Mr.  Sharp,  with  a  can- 
did exposition  of  his  reasons  for  secreting  Sidney — 
reasons  in  which  the  wortliy  officer  professed  to  sym- 
pathize— secured'  the  discretion  of  his  ally.  But  he 
would  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  being  in  the 
same  house  with  Sidney,  and  was  therefore,  for  some 
months,  the  guest  of  his  sisters.  At  length  he  heard 
that  young  Beaufort  had  been  ordered  abroad  for  his 
liealth,  and  he  then  deemed  it  safe  to  transfer  his  new 
idol  to  his  Lares  by  the  lakes.  During  this  interval,  the 
current  of  the  younger  Morton's  life  had  indeed  flowed 
through  flowers.  At  his  age  the  cares  of  females  were 
almost  a  want  as  well  as  a  luxury,  and  the  sisters  spoil- 
ed and  petted  him  as  much  as  any  elderly  nymphs  in 
Cytherea  ever  petted  Cupid.  They  were  good,  excel- 
lent, high-nosed,  flat-bosomed  spinsters,  sentimentally 
fond  of  their  brother,  whom  they  called  "  the  poet,"  and 
dotingly  attached  to  children.  The  cleanness,  the  quiet, 
the  good  cheer  of  their  neat  abode,  all  tended  to  revive 
and  invigorate  the  spirits  of  their  young  guest,  and  ev- 
ery one  there  seemed  to  vie  which  should  love  him  the 
most.  Still  his  especial  favourite  was  Mr.  Spencer: 
for  Spencer  never  went  out  without  bringing  back  cakes 
and  toys  ;  and  Spencer  gave  him  his  pony  ;  and  Spencer 
rode  a  little  crop-eared  nag  by  his  side  ;  and  Spencer,  in 
!-hort,  was  associated  with  his  every  comfort  and  ca- 
price. He  told  them  his  Httle  history ;  and  when  he 
said  how  Philip  had  left  him  alone  for  long  hours  to- 
gether, and  how  Philip  had  forced  him  to  his  last  and 
nearly  fatal  journey,  the  old  maids  groaned,  and  the  old 
bachelor  sighed,  and  tliey  all  cried  in  a  breath  that 
"  Philip  was  a  very  wicked  boy."  It  was  not  only  their 
obvious  pohcy  to  detach  him  from  liis  brother,  but  it 
was  their  sincere  conviction  that  they  did  riglit  to  do  so. 
Sidney  began,  it  is  true,  by  taking  I^hiUp's  part ;  but  hia 
mind  was  ductile,  and  he  still  looked  back  with  a  shud<« 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  179 

der  to  the  hardships  he  had  gone  through ;  and  so,  by 
little  and  little,  he  learned  to  forget  all  the  endearing 
and  fostering  love  Philip  had  evinced  to  him  ;  to  connect 
his  name  with  dark  and  mysterious  fears  ;  to  repeat 
thanksgivings  to  Providence  that  he  was  saved  from 
him ;  and  to  hope  that  they  might  never  meet  again. 
In  fact,  when  Mr.  Spencer  learned  from  Sharp  that  it 
was  through  Captain  Smith,  the  swindler,  that  applica- 
tion had  been  made  by  Philip  for  news  of  his  brother, 
and  having  also  learned  before,  from  the  same  person, 
that  Philip  had  been  implicated  in  the  sale  of  a  horse, 
swindled,  if  not  stolen,  he  saw  every  additional  reason 
to  widen  the  stream  that  flowed  between  the  wolf  and 
the  lamb.  The  older  Sidney  grew,  the  better  he  com- 
prehended and  appreciated  the  motives  of  his  protector ; 
for  he  was  brought  up  in  a  formal  school  of  propriety 
and  ethics,  and  his  mind  naturally  revolted  from  all  im- 
ages of  violence  or  fraud.  Mr.  Spencer  changed  both 
the  Christian  and  the  surname  of  his  protege,  in  order  to 
elude  the  search  whether  of  Philip,  the  Mortons,  or  the 
Beauforts,  and  Sidney  passed  for  his  nephew  by  g, 
younger  brother  who  had  died  in  India. 

So  there,  by  the  calm  banks  of  the  placid  lake,  amid 
the  fairest  landscapes  of  the  island  garden,  the  youngest 
born  of  Catharine  passed  his  tranquil  days.  The  mo- 
notony of  the  retreat  did  not  fatigue  a  spirit  which,  as 
he  grew  up,  found  occupation  in  books,  music,  poetry, 
and  the  elegances  of  the  cultivated,  if  quiet  life,  within 
his  reach.  To  the  rough  past  he  looked  back  as  to  an 
evil  dream,  in  which  the  image  of  Philip  stood  dark  and 
threatening.  His  brother's  name,  as  he  grew  older,  he 
rarely  mentioned  ;  and  if  he  did  volunteer  it  to  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, the  bloom  on  his  cheek  grew  paler.  The  sweetness 
of  his  manners,  his  fair  face  and  winning  smile,  still 
combined  to  secure  him  love,  and  to  screen  from  the 
common  eye  whatever  of  selfishness  yet  lurked  in  his 
nature.  And,  indeed,  that  fault  in  so  serene  a  career, 
and  with  friends  so  attached,  was  seldom  called  into 
action.  So  thus  was  he  severed  from  both  the  protect- 
ors, Arthur  and  Philip,  to  whom  poor  Catharine  had  be- 
queatlied  him.  By  a  perverse  and  strange  mystery,  they 
to  whom  the  charge  was  most  intrusted  were  the  very 
persons  who  were  forbidden  to  redeem  it.  On  our  death- 
beds, when  we  think  we  have  provided  for  those  we 
leave  behind,  should  we  lose  the  last  smile  that  gilds  tU§ 


180  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

solemn  agony  if  we  could  look  one  year  into  the  Fu- 
ture 1 

Arthur  Beaufort,  after,  as  might  be  expected,  an  inef- 
fectual search  for  Sidney,  on  returning  to  his  home, 
heard  no  unexaggerated  narrative  of  Philip's  visit,  and 
listened  with  deep  resentment  to  his  mother's  distorted 
account  of  the  language  addressed  to  her.  It  is  not  to 
be  surprised  that,  with  all  his  romantic  generosity,  he 
felt  sickened  and  revolted  at  violence  that  seemed  to 
him  without  excuse.  Though  not  a  revengeful  charac- 
ter, he  had  not  that  meekness  which  never  resents.  He 
looked  upon  Phihp  Morton  as  upon  one  rendered  incor- 
rigible by  bad  passions  and  evil  company.  Still  Catha- 
rine's last  bequest,  and  Philip's  note  to  him,  the  un- 
known comforter,  often  recurred  to  him,  and  he  would 
have  willingly  yet  aided  had  Philip  been  thrown  in  his 
way.  But  as  it  was,  when  he  looked  around,  and  saw 
the  examples  of  that  charity  that  begins  at  home,  in 
which  the  world  abounds,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  done  his 
duty  ;  and  prosperity  having,  though  it  could  not  harden 
his  heart,  still  sapped  the  habits  of  perseverance,  so  by 
little  and  little  the  image  of  the  dying  Catharine,  and  the 
thought  of  her  sons,  faded  from  his  remembrance.  And 
for  this  there  was  the  more  excuse  after  the  receipt  of 
an  anonymous  letter,  which  relieved  all  his  apprehen- 
sions on  behalf  of  Sidney.  The  letter  was  short,  and 
stated  simply  that  Sidney  Morton  had  found  a  friend 
who  would  protect  him  throughout  life,  but  who  would 
not  scruple  to  apply  to  Beaufort  if  ever  he  needed  his 
assistance.  So  one  son,  and  that  the  youngest  and  the 
best-loved,  was  safe.  And  the  other,  had  he  not  chosen 
his  own  career  1  Alas,  poor  Catharine  !  when  you  fan- 
cied that  Philip  was  the  one  sure  to  force  his  way  into 
fortune,  and  Sidney  the  one  most  helpless,  how  ill  did 
you  judge  of  the  human  heart !  It  was  that  very  strength 
in  Philip's  nature  which  tempted  the  winds  that  scatter- 
ed the  blossoms,  and  shook  the  stem  to  its  roots ;  while 
the  lighter  and  frailer  nature  bent  to  the  gale,  and  bore 
transplanting  to  a  happier  soil.  If  a  parent  read  these 
pages,  let  him  pause  and  think  well  on  the  characters 
of  his  children  ;  let  him  at  once  fear  and  hope  the  most 
for  the  one  wliose  passions  and  whose  temper  lead  to  a 
struggle  with  tlie  world.  That  same  world  is  a  tough 
wrestler,  and  lias  a  hoar's  gripe  for  the  poor. 

Meanwhile!,  Arthur  Beaufort's  own  complaints,  which 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  181 

grew  serious  and  menaced  consumption,  recalled  his 
thoughts  more  and  more  every  day  to  himself.  He  was 
compelled  to  abandon  his  career  at  the  University,  and 
to  seek  for  health  in  the  softer  breezes  of  the  South, 
His  parents  accompanied  him  to  Nice ;  and  when,  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months,  he  was  restored  to  health,  the 
desire  of  travel  seized  the  mind  and  attracted  the  fancy 
of  the  young  heir.  His  father  and  mother,  satisfied  with 
his  recovery,  and  not  unwilling  that  he  should  acquire 
the  polish  of  Continental  intercourse,  returned  to  Eng- 
land ;  and  young  Beaufort,  with  gay  companions  and 
munificent  income,  already  courted,  spoiled,  and  flatter- 
ed, commenced  his  tour  with  the  fair  climes  of  Italy. 

So,  oh  dark  mystery  of  the  moral  world  ! — so,  unlike 
the  order  of  the  external  universe,  glide  together,  side  by 
side,  the  shadowy  steeds  of  Night  and  Morning.  Ex- 
amine life  in  its  own  world :  confound  not  that  world, 
the  inner  one,  the  practical  one,  with  the  more  visible, 
yet  airier  and  less  substantial  system,  doing  homage  to 
the  sun,  to  whose  throne,  afar  in  the  infinite  space,  the 
human  heart  has  no  wings  to  flee.  In  life,  the  mind  and 
the  circumstance  give  the  true  seasons,  and  regulate  the 
darkness  and  the  light.  Of  two  men  standing  on  the 
same  foot  of  earth,  the  one  revels  in  the  joyous  noon, 
the  other  shudders  in  the  solitude  of  night.  For  Hope 
and  Fortune  the  daystar  is  ever  shining.  The  "  An- 
muth-Strahlendes"*  hve  ever  in  the  air.  For  Care  and 
Penury,  night  changes  not  with  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
or  the  shadow  on  the  dial.  Morning  for  the  heir,  night 
for  the  houseless,  and  God's  eye  in  both ! 

*  Schiller, 


BOOK    III. 

'  aScvge  kgi'n  mir  tm  ^iOtC ; 

©tromc  l)cmmtcn  mclnen  ^ul5: 
llcber  ©d)tunbc  baut'  id)  ©tcgc 

35rucfen  fcur^  t)cn  njilben  §lu9." 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  The  knight  of  arte  and  industry, 
And  his  achievements  fair." 
Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence  ;  Explanatory  Verse  to  Canto  II 

In  a  popular  and  respectable,  but  not  very  fashionable 
quartier  in  Paris,  and  in  the  tolerably  broad  and  effective 

locale  of  the  Rue ,  there  might  be  seen,  at  the  time 

I  now  treat  of,  a  curious-looking  building,  that  jutted 
out  semicircularly  from  the  neighbouring  shops,  with 
plaster  pilasters  and  compo  ornaments.  The  virtuosi  of 
the  quartier  had  discovered  that  the  building  was  con- 
structed in  imitation  of  an  ancient  temple  in  Rome  ;  this 
erection,  then  fresh  and  new,  reached  only  to  the  entresol. 
The  pilasters  were  painted  light  green,  and  gilded  in  the 
cornices,  while  surmounting  the  architrave  were  three 
little  statues — one  held  a  torch,  another  a  bow,  and  a 
third  a  bag  ;  they  Avere  therefore  rumoured,  I  know  not 
with  what  justice,  to  be  the  artistical  representatives  of 
Hymen,  Cupid,  and  Fortune. 

On  the  door  was  neatly  engraved,  on  a  brass  plate,  the 
following  inscription : 

"  Monsieur  Love,  Anglais. 
A  l'entresol." 

And  if  you  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  mounted  the 
stairs,  and  gained  that  mysterious  story  inhabited  by 
Monsieur  Love,  you  would  have  seen  upon  another  door 
to  the  right  anotlier  epigraph,  informing  those  interested 
in  the  inquiry  that  the  bureau  of  M.  Love  was  open  daily, 
from  nine  in  the  morning  to  four  in  the  afternoon. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  183 

The  office  of  M.  Love — for  office  it  was,  and  of  a  na- 
ture not  unfrequently  designated  in  the  "  petites  affiches'''' 
of  Paris — had  been  estabhshed  about  six  months  ;  and, 
whether  it  was  the  popularity  of  tiie  profession,  or  the 
shape  of  the  shop,  or  the  manners  of  M.  Love  himself, 
I  cannot  pretend  to  say,  but  certain  it  is  that  the  Temple 
d'Hymen.  as  M.  Love  classically  termed  it,  had  be- 
come exceedingly  in  vogue  in  the  Faubourg  St. . 

It  was  rumoured  that  no  less  than  nine  marriages  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  had  been  manufactured  at  this 
fortunate  office,  and  that  they  had  all  turned  out  happily 
except  one,  in  which  the  bride  being  sixty,  and  the  bride- 
groom twenty-four,  there  had  been  rumours  of  domestic 
dissension ;  but,  as  the  lady  had  been  delivered — I  mean, 
of  her  husband,  who  had  drowned  himself  in  the  Seine 
about  a  month  after  the  ceremony — things  had  turned 
out,  in  the  long  run,  better  than  might  have  been  expect- 
ed, and  the  widow  was  so  little  discouraged  that  she  had 
been  seen  to  enter  the  office  already  :  a  circumstance 
that  was  greatly  to  the  cmHit  of  Mr.  Love. 

Perhaps  the  secret  of  Mr.  Love's  success,  and  of  the 
marked  superiority  of  his  establishment  in  rank  and  pop- 
ularity over  similar  ones,  consisted  in  the  spirit  and  lib- 
erality with  which  the  business  was  conducted.  He 
seemed  resolved  to  destroy  all  formality  between  par- 
ties who  might  desire  to  draw  closer  to  each  other,  and 
he  hit  upon  the  lucky  device  of  a  table  d'/iote,  very  well 
managed,  and  held  twice  a  week,  and  often  followed  by 
a  soiree  dansanle  ;  so  that,  if  they  pleased,  the  aspirants 
to  matrimonial  happiness  might  become  acquainted  with- 
out gene.  As  he  himself  was  a  jolly,  convivial  fellow 
of  much  savoir  vicre,  it  is  astonishing  how  well  he  made 
these  entertainments  answer.  Persons  who  had  not 
seemed  to  take  to  each  other  in  the  first  distant  inter- 
view grew  extremely  enamoured  when  the  corks  of 
the  Champagne — an  extra,  of  course,  in  the  ahonnement 
— bounced  against  the  wall.  Added  to  this,  Mr.  Love 
took  great  pains  to  know  the  tradesmen  in  his  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and,  what  with  his  jokes,  his  appearance  of 
easy  circumstances,  and  the  fluency  with  which  he 
spoke  the  language,  he  became  a  universal  favourite. 
Many  persons,  who  were  uncommonly  starch  in  gener- 
al, and  who  professed  to  ridicule  the  bureau,  saw  nothing 
improper  in  dining  at  the  table  (Vhdte.  To  those  who 
wished  for  secrecy  he  was  said  to  be  wonderfully  dis- 


184  NIGHT    ANI»    MORNING* 

creet ;  but  there  were  others  who  did  not  affect  to  con- 
ceal their  discontent  at  the  single  slate  :  for  the  rest,  the 
entertainments  were  so  contrived  as  never  to  shock  the 
delicacy,  while  they  always  forwarded  the  suit. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  Mr. 
Love  was  still  seated  at  dinner,  or,  rather,  at  dessert, 
with  a  party  of  guests.  His  apartments,  though  small, 
were  somewhat  gaudily  painted  and  furnished,  and  his 
dining-room  was  decorated  a  la  Turque.  Tlie  party 
consisted,  first,  of  a  rich  epicier,  a  widower,  Monsieur 
Goupille  by  name,  an  eminent  man  in  the  faubourg  ;  he 
was  in  his  grand  climacteric,  but  still  helhomme ;  wore  a 
very  well-made  perruque  of  light  auburn,  with  tight  pan- 
taloons, which  contained  a  pair  of  very  respectable 
calves  ;  and  his  white  neckcloth  and  his  large  frill  were 
washed  and  got  up  with  especial  care.  Next  to  Mon- 
sieur Goupille  sat  a  very  demure  and  very  spare  young 
lady  of  about  two-and-thirty,  who  was  said  to  have 
saved  a  fortune — Heaven  knows  how — in  the  family  of 
a  rich  English  milord,  where  she  had  officiated  as  gov- 
erness ;  she  called  herself  Mademoiselle  Adele  de 
Courval,  and  was  very  particular  about  the  de,  and  very 
melancholy  about  her  ancestors.  Monsieur  Goupille 
generally  put  his  finger  through  his  perruque,  and  fell 
away  a  little  on  his  left  pantaloon  when  he  spoke  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Courval ;  and  Mademoiselle  de  Courval 
generally  pecked  at  her  bouquet  when  she  answered 
Monsieur  Goupille.  On  the  other  side  of  this  young 
lady  sat  a  fine-looking,  fair  man,  M.  de  Sovolofski,  a 
Pole,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  and  rather  threadbare, 
though  uncommonly  neat.  He  was  flanked  by  a  little 
fat  lady,  who  had  been  very  pretty,  and  who  kept  a 
boarding-house  or  pension  for  the  English,  she  herself 
being  Enghsh,  though  long  established  in  Paris.  Ru- 
mour said  she  had  been  gay  in  her  youth,  and  dropped 
in  Paris  by  a  Russian  nobleman,  with  a  very  pretty  set- 
tlement— she  and  the  settlement  having  equally  expand- 
ed by  time  and  season  :  she  was  called  Madame  Beavor. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  a  red-headed  Eng- 
lishman, who  sjx)ke  very  little  French  ;  who  had  been 
told  that  French  ladies  were  passionately  fond  of  light 
hair  ;  and  who,  having  jC2000  of  his  own,  intended  to 
quadruple  that  sum  by  a  prudent  marriage.  Nobody 
knew  what  his  fainily  was,  l)ut  his  name  was  Higgins. 
His  neighbour  was  an   exceedingly  tall,  largc-bone4 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  185 

Frenchman,  with  a  long  nose  and  a  red  riband,  who 
was  much  seen  at  Frescati's,  and  had  served  under  Na- 
poleon. Then  came  anotlier  lady,  extremely  pretty, 
very  piquanle  and  very  gay,  but  past  the  premiere  jeunesse, 
who  ogled  Mr.  Love  more  than  she  did  any  of  his  guests  : 
she  was  called  Rosalie  Cauniartin,  and  was  at  the  head 
of  a  large  bonbon  establishment :  married,  but  her  hus- 
band had  gone  four  years  ago  to  the  Isle  of  France,  and 
she  was  a  little  doubtful  whether  she  might  not  be  justly 
entitled  to  the  privileges  of  a  widow.  Next  to  Mr. 
Love,  in  the  place  of  honour,  sat  no  less  a  person  than 
the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont,  a  French  gentleman  really 
well-born,  but  whose  various  excesses,  added  to  his 
poverty,  had  not  served  to  sustain  that  respect  for  his 
birth  which  he  considered  due  to  it.  He  had  already 
been  twice  married ;  once  to  an  Englishwoman,  who 
had  been  decoyed  by  the  title  ;  by  this  lady,  who  died 
in  childbed,  he  had  one  son  :  a  fact  which  he  sedulously 
concealed  from  the  world  of  Paris  by  keeping  the  un- 
happy boy,  who  was  now  some  eighteen  or  nineteen 
years  old,  a  perpetual  exile  in  England.  Monsieur  de 
Vaudemont  did  not  wish  to  pass  for  more  than  thirty, 
and  he  considered  that  to  produce  a  son  of  eighteen 
would  be  to  make  the  lad  a  monster  of  ingratitude  by 
giving  the  lie  every  hour  to  his  own  father !  In  spite 
of  this  precaution,  the  vicomte  found  great  difficulty  in 
getting  a  third  wife,  especially  as  he  had  no  actual  and 
visible  income  ;  Avas,  not  seamed,  but  ploughed  up  with 
the  smallpox ;  small  of  stature,  and  was  considered 
more  than  un  peu  btte.  He  was,  however,  a  prodigious 
dandy,  and  wore  a  lace  frill  and  embroidered  waistcoat 
Mr.  Love's  vis-a-vis  was  Mr.  Birnie,  an  Englishman,  a 
sort  of  assistant  in  the  establishment,  wi'h  a  hard,  dry. 
parchment  face,  and — a  remarkable  talent  for  silence. 
The  host  himself  was  a  splendid  animal ;  his  vast  chest 
seemed  to  occupy  more  space  at  the  table  than  any  four 
of  his  guests,  yet  he  was  not  corjjulent  or  unwieldy  ;  he 
was  dressed  in  black,  wore  a  velvet  stock  very  high,  and 
four  gold  studs  glittered  in  his  shirt-front ;  he  was  bald 
to  the  crown,  which  made  his  forehead  appear  singularly 
lofty,  and  what  hair  he  had  left  was  a  little  grayish  and 
curled  ;  his  face  was  shaved  smoothly  except  a  close- 
clipped  mustache ;  and  his  eyes,  though  small,  were 
bright  and  piercing.  Such  was  the  party. 
"  These  are  the  best  bonsbotis  1  ever  ate,"  said  Mr. 
Q3 


186  NIGHT   AND    MORNING 

Love,  glancing  at  Madame  Caumartin.  "  My  fair  friends 
have  compassion  on  the  table  of  a  poor  bachelor." 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  be  a  bachelor,  Monsieur  Lofe," 
replied  the  fair  Rosalie,  with  an  arch  look  ;  "  you,  who 
make  others  marry,  should  set  the  example." 

"  All  in  good  time,"  answered  Mr.  Love,  nodding ; 
"  one  serves  one's  customers  to  so  much  happiness  that 
one  has  none  left  for  one's  self." 

Here  a  loud  explosion  was  heard.  Monsieur  Goupille 
had  pulled  one  of  the  bonbon  crackers  with  Mademoiselle 
Adele. 

"  I've  got  the  motto ! — no — monsieur  has  it :  I'm  al- 
ways unlucky,"  said  the  gentle  Adele. 

The  epicier  solemnly  unrolled  the  little  slip  of  paper ; 
the  print  was  very  small,  and  he  longed  to  take  out  his 
spectacles,  but  he  thought  that  would  make  him  look 
old.  However,  he  spelled  through  the  motto  with  some 
difficulty : 

"Comme  elle  fait  soumettre  un  coeurj 
En  refusant  son  doux  hommage, 
On  peut  trailer  la  coquette  en  vainqueur 

De  la  beaute  modeste  on  cherit  I'esclavage." 

"  I  present  it  to  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  laying  the 
motto  solemnly  in  Adele's  platcj  upon  a  little  mountain 
of  chestnut-husks. 

"  It  is  very  pretty,"  said  she,  looking  down. 

"  It  is  very  a  propos,"  whispered  the  epicier,  caressing 
the  perruqiie  a  little  too  roughly  in  his  emotion.  Mr. 
Love  gave  him  a  kick  under  the  table,  and  put  his  finger 
to  his  own  bald  head,  and  then  to  his  nose,  significant- 
ly. The  intelligent  epicier  smoothed  back  the  irritated 
perruque. 

"  Ane  you  fond  of  bonsbons^  Mademoiselle  Adele  1  I 
have  a  very  fine  stock  at  home,"  said  Monsieur  Gou- 
pille. 

Mademoiselle  Adele  de  CoUrval  sighed,  "  Helas !  they 
remind  me  of  happier  days.  When  I  was  a  petite,  and 
my  dear  grandmamma  took  me  in  her  lap,  and  told  me 
how  she  escaped  the  guillotine — she  was  an  emigree, 
and  you  know  her  father  was  a  marquis." 

The  6picicr  bowed  and  looked  puzzled.  Me  did  not 
quite  see  the  connexion  between  the  bonsbons  and  the 
guillotine. 

"  You  are  tHsle,  monsieur."  observed  Madame  Beavorj 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  187 

in  rather  a  piqued  tone,  to  the  Pole,  who  had  not  said 
.a  word  since  the  rdti.  , 

"  Madame,  an  exile  is  always  triste :  I  think  of  my 
pauvre  pays." 

"  Bah !"  cried  Mr.  Love.  "  Think  that  there  is  no  ex- 
ile by  the  side  of  a  belle  dame.'''' 

The  Pole  smiled  mournfully. 

"  Pull  it,"  said  Madame  Beavor,  holding  a  cracker  to 
the  patriot,  and  turning  away  her  face. 

"  Yes,  madamc  ;  I  wish  it  were  a  cannon  in  defence 
of  La  Pologne" 

With  this  magniloquent  aspiration,  the  gallant  Sovo- 
lofski  pulled  lustily,  and  then  nibbed  his  fingers  with  a 
little  grimace,  observing  that  crackers  were  sometimes 
dangerous,  and  that  the  present  combustible  was  d'une 
farce  immense. 

"  Helas  !  J'ai  cru  jusqu'd  ce  jouf 
Pouvoir  triompher  de  I'amour," 

said  Madame  Beavor,  reading  the  motto.  "  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ]" 

"  Madame,  there  is  no  triumph  for  La  Pologne  /" 

Madame  Beavor  uttered  a  little  peevish  exclamation, 
and  glanced  in  despair  at  her  red-headed  countryman. 
"  Are  you,  too,  a  great  politician,  sir  V  said  she,  in  Eng- 
lish. 

"  No,  mem  !     I'm  all  for  the  ladies." 

"  What  does  he  say  f  asked  Madame  Cauraartin. 

"  Monsieur  Higgins  est  tout  pour  les  dames^ 

"To  be  sure  he  is,"  cried  Mr.  Love;  "  all  the  English 
are,  especially  with  that  coloured  hair ;  a  lady  who  likes 
a  passionate  adorer  should  always  marry  a  man  with 
gold-coloured  hair — always.  What  do  you  say.  Made- 
moiselle AdeleV 

"  Oh,  I  like  fair  hair,"  said  mademoiselle,  looking  bash- 
fully askew  at  Monsieur  Goupille's  perruque.  "  Grand- 
mamma said  her  papa — the  marquis — used  yellow  pow- 
der :  it  must  have  been  very  pretty." 

"  Rather  d  la  sucre  d'orge,'^  remarked  the  epicier,  smi- 
ling on  the  right  side  of  his  mouth,  where  his  best  teeth 
were. 

Mademoiselle  de  Courval  looked  displeased.  "  I  fear 
you  are  a  Republican,  Monsieur  Goupille  V 

'  I,  mademoiselle  ?  No,  I'm  for  the  Restoration ;" 
and  again  the  ^icter  perplaxad  himself  to  discover  the 


188  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

association  of  idea  between  republicanism   and  sucre 
tTarge. 

"  Another  glass  of  wine.  Come,  another,"  said  Mr. 
Love,  stretching  across  the  vicomte  to  help  Madame 
Caumartin. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  tall  Frenchman  with  the  riband,  eying 
the  epicier  with  great  disdain,  "  you  say  you  are  for  the 
Restoration — I  am  for  the  Empire — Moi .'" 

"  No  pontics  !"  cried  Mr.  Love.  "  Let  us  adjourn  to 
the  salon." 

The  vicomte,  who  had  seemed  supremely  ennuy^  du- 
ring this  dialogue,  plucked  Mr.  Love  by  the  sleeve  as  he 
rose,  and  whispered  petulantly,  "  I  do  not  see  any  one 
here  to  suit  me.  Monsieur  Love — none  of  my  rank." 

"  Mon  Dieu .'"  answered  Mr.  Love  ;  "  point  d'argent, 
voint  Suisse.  I  could  introduce  you  to  a  duchess,  but  then 
the  fee  is  high.  There's  Mademoiselle  de  Courval — she 
dates  from  the  Carlovingians." 

"  She  is  very  like  a  boiled  sole,"  answered  the  vicomte, 
with  a  wry  face.     "  Still — what  dower  has  she  V 

"  Forty  thousand  francs,  and  sickly,"  replied  Mr.  Love  : 
"  but  she  likes  a  tall  man,  and  Monsieur  Goupille  is — " 

"  Tall  men  are  never  well  made,"  interrupted  the 
vicomte,  angrily ;  and  he  drew  himself  aside  as  Mr. 
Love,  gallantly  advancing,  gave  his  arm  to  Madame 
Beavor,  because  the  Pole  had,  in  rising,  folded  both  his 
arras  across  his  breast. 

"  Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Love  to  Madame 
Beavor,  as  they  adjourned  to  the  salon,  "  I  don't  think 
you  manage  that  brave  man  well." 

"  Ma  foi,  comme  il  est  ennuyeux  avec  sa  Pologne,"  re- 
plied Madame  Beavor,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  True,  but  he  is  a  very  fine-shaped  man  ;  and  it  is  a 
comfort  to  think  that  one  will  have  no  rival  but  his 
country.  Trust  me,  and  encourage  him  a  little  more.; 
I  think  he  would  suit  you  to  a  T." 

Here  the  garqon  engaged  for  the  evening  announced 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud ;  whereupon  there  en- 
tered a  little— little  couple,  very  fair,  very  plump,  and 
very  like  each  other.  This  was  Mr.  Love's  show  couple 
— his  decoy  ducks — his  last  best  example  of  match- 
making ;  they  had  been  married  two  months  out  of  the 
hurcan,  and  were  the  admiration  of  the  neighbourhood 
for  their  conjugal  affection.  As  they  were  now  united, 
they  had  ceased  to  frequent  the  table  d'hote ;  but  Mr.  Love 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  189 

often  invited  them  after  the  dessert,  pour  encourager  hs 
autres. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  cried  Mr.  Love,  shaking  each  by 
the  hand,  "  I  am  ravished  to  see  you.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  present  to  you  the  happiest  couple  in  Christen- 
dom ;  if  I  had  done  nothing  else  in  my  life  but  to  bring 
them  together,  I  should  not  have  lived  in  vain  !" 

The  company  eyed  the  objects  of  this  eulogium  with 
great  attention. 

"  Monsieur,  my  prayer  is  to  deserve  my  bonheur,"  said 
Monsieur  Giraud. 

"  Cher  ange .'"  murmured  madame  :  and  the  happy 
pair  seated  themselves  next  to  each  other. 

Mr.  Love,  who  was  all  for  those  innocent  pastimes 
which  do  away  with  conventional  formality  and  reserve, 
now  proposed  a  game  at  "  Hunt  the  Slipper,"  which  was 
welcomed  by  the  whole  party  except  the  Pole  and  the 
vicomte  ;  though  Mademoiselle  Adele  looked  prudish, 
and  observed  to  the  epicier  "  that  Monsieur  Lofe  was  so 
droll !  but  she  should  not  have  liked  her  pauvre  grand' 
maman  to  see  her." 

The  vicomte  had  stationed  himself  opposite  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Courval,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  very 
tenderly. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  see,  does  not  approve  of  such  hour' 
geois  diversions,"  said  he. 

"  No,  monsieur,"  said  the  gentle  Adele.  "  But  I  think 
we  must  sacrifice  our  own  tastes  to  those  of  the  com- 
pany." 

"  It  is  a  very  amiable  sentiment,"  said  the  epicier. 

•'  It  was  one  attributed  to  grandmamma's  papa,  the 
Marquis  de  Courval.  It  has  become  quite  a  hackneyed 
remark  since,"  said  Adf^le. 

"  Come,  ladies,"  said  the  joyous  Rosalie,  "  I  volunteer 
my  slipper." 

"  Asseyez-vous  done"  said  Madame  Beavor  to  the  Pole. 
"Have  you  no  games  of  this  sort  in  Poland  1" 

"  Madame,  La  Pologne  is  no  more,"  said  the  Pole. 
"  But  with  the  swords  of  her  brave — " 

"  No  swords  here,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Love, 
putting  his  vast  hands  on  the  Pole's  shoulders,  and  sink- 
ing him  forcibly  down  into  the  circle  now  formed. 

The  game  proceeded  with  great  vigour  and  much 
laughter  from  Rosalie,  Mr.  Love,  and  Madame  Beavor, 
especially  whenever  the  last  thumped  the  Pole  with  the 


190  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

heel  of  the  sUpper.  Monsieur  Giraud  was  always  sure 
that  Madame  Giraud  had  the  slipper  about  her,  which 
persuasion  on  his  part  gave  rise  to  many  little  endear- 
ments, which  are  always  so  innocent  among  married 
people.  The  vicomte  and  the  Spicier  were  equally  cer- 
tain the  slipper  was  with  Mademoiselle  Adele,  who  de- 
fended herself  with  much  more  energy  than  might  have 
been  supposed  in  one  so  gentle.  The  epicier,  however, 
grew  jealous  of  the  attentions  of  his  noble  rival,  and  told 
him  that  hegaie'd  mademoiselle ;  whereupon  the  vicomte 
called  him  an  impertinent ;  and  the  tall  Frenchman  with 
the  red  riband  sprung  up  and  said, 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance,  gentlemen  V 

Therewith  Mr.  Love,  the  great  peacemaker,  inter- 
posed, and,  reconciling  the  rivals,  proposed  to  change 
the  game  to  Colin  Maillard,  Anglice,  "  Blind  Man's  Buff." 
Rosalie  clapped  her  hands,  and  offered  herself  to  be 
blindfolded.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  cleared  away ; 
and  Madame  Beavor  pushed  the  Pole  into  Rosalie's 
arms,  who,  having  felt  him  about  the  face  for  some 
moments,  guessed  him  to  be  the  tall  Frenchman.  During 
this  time  Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud  hid  themselves 
behind  the  window-curtain. 

"  Amuse  yourself,  mon  ami,''''  said  Madame  Beavor  to 
the  liberated  Pole. 

"  Ah,  madam,"  sighed  Monsieur  Sovolofski,  "  how 
can  I  be  gay !  All  my  property  confiscated  by  the 
Emperor  of  Russia !     Has  La  Palogne  no  Brutus  V 

"  I  think  you  are  in  love,"  said  the  host,  clapping  him 
on  the  back. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  whispered  the  Pole  to  the 
matchmaker,  "  that  Madame  Beavor  has  vingt  mille  livres 
de  rentes  V 

"  Not  a  sous  less." 

The  Pole  mused,  and,  glancing  at  Madame  Beavor, 
said,  "  And  yet,  m^dame,  your  charming  gaycty  consoles 
me  amid  all  my  sufferings  ;"  upon  which  Madame  Beavor 
called  him  "  flatterer,"  and  rapped  his  knuckles  with  her 
ian  ;  the  latter  proceeding  the  brave  Pole  did  not  seem 
lo  hke,  for  he  immediately  buried  his  hands  in  his 
trowsers'  pockets. 

The  game  was  now  at  its  meridian.  Rosalie  was  un- 
commonly active,  and  flew  about  here  and  there,  much 
to  the  harassment  of  the  Pole,  who  repcatetlly  wiped 
his  forehead,  and  observed  that  it  was  warm  work,  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  191 

put  him  in  mind  of  the  last  sad  battle  for  La  Pologne. 
Monsieur  Goupille,  who  had  lately  taken  lessons  in 
dancing,  and  was  vain  of  his  agility,  mounted  the  chairs 
and  tables,  as  Rosalie  approached,  with  great  grace  and 
gravity.  It  so  happened  that  in  these  saltations  he  as- 
cended a  stool  near  the  curtain  behind  which  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Giraud  were  ensconced.  Somewhat  agi- 
tated by  a  slight  fluttering  behind  the  folds,  which  made 
him  fancy,  on  the  sudden  panic,  that  Rosalie  was  creep- 
ing that  way,  the  epicier  made  an  abrupt  pirouette,  and 
the  hook  on  which  the  curtains  were  suspended  caught 
his  left  coat-tail : 

"  The  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side  :" 

just  as  he  turned  to  extricate  the  garment  from  that  di- 
lemma, Rosalie  sprung  upon  him,  and,  naturally  lifting 
her  hands  to  that  height  where  she  fancied  the  human 
face  divine,  took  another  extremity  of  Monsieur  Gou- 
pille's  graceful  frame,  thus  exposed,  by  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know  who  this  is.  Quelle  drSle  de  visage  .'" 
muttered  Rosalie. 

"  Mais,  madame,"  faltered  Monsieur  Goupille,  looking 
greatly  disconcerted. 

The  gentle  Adele,  who  did  not  seem  to  relish  this  ad- 
venture, came  to  the  relief  of  her  wooer,  and  pinched 
Rosalie  very  sharply  in  the  arm. 

"  That's  not  fair.  But  1  will  know  who  this  is,"  cried 
Rosalie,  angrily  ;  "  you  sha'n't  escape  I" 

A  sudden  and  universal  burst  of  laughter  roused  her 
suspicions — she  drew  back —  and  exclaiming,  "  Mais, 
quelle  mauvaise  plaisanterie  ;  c'est  trap  fort .'"  applied  her 
fair  hand  to  the  place  in  dispute  with  so  hearty  a  good- 
will, that  Monsieur  Goupille  uttered  a  dolorous  cry,  and 
sprung  from  the  chair,  leaving  the  coat-tail  (the  cause 
of  all  his  wo)  suspended  upon  the  hook. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
excitement  caused  by  Monsieur  Goupille's  misfortune, 
that  the  door  opened,  and  the  gar^on  reappeared,  follow- 
ed by  a  young  man  in  a  large  cloak. 

The  new-comer  paused  at  the  threshold,  and  gazed 
around  him  in  evident  surprise. 

"  Diable .'"  said  Mr.  Love,  approaching,  and  gazing 
hard  at  tlie  stranger.  "  Is  it  possible?  You  are,  then, 
come  at  last  ?     Welcome  !"' 

"  But,"  said  the  stranger,  apparently  still  bewildered, 
"  there  is  some  mistake  ;  you  are  not — " 


192  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Love! — Love  all  the  world  over. 
How  is  our  friend  Gregg  1  Told  you  to  address  yourself 
to  Mr.  Love,  eh  ?  Mum !  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  an  ac- 
quisition to  our  party.  Fine  fellow,  eh  1  Five  feet 
eleven  without  his  shoes,  and  young  enough  to  hope  to 
be  thrice  married  before  he  dies.  When  did  you  ar- 
rive V 

"  To-day." 

And  thus  Phihp  Morton  and  Mr.  William  Gawtrey  met 
once  more. 


CHAPTER  H. 

"  Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  care  and  strife 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  splendid  shilhng  !" — The  Splendid  Shilling. 

"  And  wherefore  should  they  take  or  care  for  thought, 
The  unreasoning  vulgar  wilhngly  obey, 
And  leaving  toil  and  poverty  behind, 
Hun  forth  by  different  ways,  the  blissful  boon  to  find." 

West's  Education. 

"  Poor  boy !  your  story  interests  me.  The  events  are 
romantic,  but  the  moral  is  practical,  old,  everlasting — 
life,  boy,  life  Poverty  by  itself  is  no  such  great  curse  ; 
that  is,  if  it  stops  short  of  starving.  And  passion  by 
itself  is  a  noble  thing,  sir ;  but  poverty  and  passion  to^ 
gether — poverty  and  feeling — poverty  and  pride — the 
poverty,  not  of  birth,  but  reverse  ;  and  the  man  who 
ousts  you  out  of  your  easy-chair,  kicking  you  with  ev- 
ery turn  he  takes,  as  he  settles  himself  more  comforta- 
bly— why,  there's  no  romance  in  that— hard  every-day 
life,  sir !  Well,  well :  so,  after  your  brother's  letter, 
you  resigned  yourself  to  that  fellow  Smith." 

"  No  ;  I  gave  him  my  money,  not  my  soul.  I  turned 
from  his  door  with  a  few  shillings  that  he  himself  thrust 
into  my  hand,  and  walked  on— I  cared  not  whither — out 
of  the  town,  into  the  fields,  till  night  came ;  and  then, 
just  as  I  suddenly  entered  on  the  high  road,  many  miles 
away,  the  moon  rose,  and  I  saw  by  tlie  hedgeside  some- 
thing that  seemed  like  a  coqise  :  it  was  an  old  beggar, 
in  the  last  stage  of  raggedness,  disease,  and  famine.    He 


^-  NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  193 

had  lain  himself  down  to  die.  I  shared  with  him  what 
I  had,  and  helped  him  to  a  little  inn.  As  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  he  turned  round  and  blessed  me.  Do  you 
know,  the  moment  I  heard  that  blessing,  a  stone  seem- 
ed rolled  away  from  my  heart.  I  said  to  myself,  '  What, 
then !  even  /  can  be  of  use  to  some  one  ;  and  I  am  bet- 
ter off  than  that  old  man,  for  I  have  youth  and  health.' 
As  these  thoughts  stirred  in  me,  my  limbs,  before  heavy 
with  fatigue,  grew  light ;  a  strange  kind  of  excitement 
seized  me.  I  ran  on  gayly  beneath  the  moonlight  that 
smiled  over  the  crisp,  broad  road.  I  felt  as  if  no  house, 
not  even  a  palace,  were  large  enough  for  me  that  night. 
And  when,  at  last  wearied  out,  I  crept  into  a  wood  and 
laid  myself  down  to  sleep,  I  still  murmured  to  myself, 
'  I  have  youth  and  health.'  But  in  the  morning,  when 
I  rose,  I  stretched  out  my  arms,  and  missed  my  broth- 
er!  ....  In  two  or  three  days  I  found  employment  with 
a  farmer ;  but  we  quarrelled  after  a  few  weeks,  for 
once  he  wished  to  strike  me  ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  I 
could  work,  but  not  serve.  Winter  had  begun  when  we 
parted — oh,  such  a  winter !  Then — then  I  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  houseless.  How  I  lived  for  some  months 
— if  to  live  it  can  be  called — it  would  pain  you  to  hear, 
and  humble  me  to  speak.  At  last,  I  found  myself  again 
in  London  ;  and  one  evening,  not  many  days  since,  I  re- 
solved at  last — for  nothing  else  seemed  left,  and  I  had 
not  touched  food  for  two  days — to  come  to  you." 

"  And  why  did  that  never  occur  to  you  before  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  Philip,  with  a  deep  blush,  "  because 
I  trembled  at  the  power  over  my  actions  and  my  future 
life  that  I  was  to  give  to  one  whom  I  was  to  bless  as  a 
benefactor,  yet  distrust  as  a  guide." 

"  Well,"  said  Love  or  Gawtrey,  with  a  singular  mix- 
ture of  irony  and  compassion  in  his  voice,  "and  it  was 
hunger,  then,  that  terrified  you  at  last,  even  more  than  I !" 

"  Perhaps  hunger,  or  perhaps  rather  the  reasoning 
that  comes  from  hunger.  I  had  not,  I  say,  touched  food 
for  two  days ;  and  I  was  standing  on  that  bridge  from 
which,  on  one  side,  you  see  the  palace  of  a  head  of  the 
Church,  on  the  other  the  towers  of  the  Abbey,  within 
which  the  men  I  have  read  of  in  history  lie  buried.  It 
was  a  cold,  frosty  evening,  and  the  river  below  looked 
bright  with  the  lamps  and  stars.  I  leaned,  weak  and 
sickening,  against  the  wall  of  the  bridge  ;  and  in  one  of 
the  arched  recesses  beside  me  a  cripple  held  out  his  hat 

Vol.  I.-R 


194  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

for  pence.  I  envied  him !  He  had  a  livehhood ;  he  was 
inured  to  it,  perhaps  bred  to  it ;  he  had  no  shame.  By 
a  sudden  impulse,  I  too  turned  abruptly  round,  held  out 
my  hand  to  the  first  passenger,  and  started  at  the  shrill- 
ness of  my  own  voice  as  it  cried  '  Charity.'  " 

Gawtrey  threw  another  log  on  the  fire,  looked  com- 
placently round  the  comfortable  room,  and  rubbed  his 
hinds.     The  young  man  continued  : 

"  '  You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  I've  a  great 
mind  to  give  you  up  to  the  police,'  was  the  answer,  in  a 
pert  and  sharp  tone.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  the  livery  my 
father's  menials  had  worn.  I  had  been  begging  my  bread 
from  Robert  Beaufort's  lackey  !  I  said  nothing ;  the 
man  went  on  his  business  on  tiptoe,  that  the  mud  might 
not  splash  above  the  soles  of  his  shoes.  Then  thoughts 
so  black  that  they  seemed  to  blot  out  every  star  from 
the  sky — thoughts  I  had  often  wrestled  against,  but  to 
which  I  now  gave  myself  up  with  a  sort  of  mad  joy — 
seized  me,  and  I  remembered  you.  I  had  still  preserved 
the  address  you  gave  me  ;  I  went  straight  to  the  house. 
Your  friend,  on  naming  you,  received  nie  kindly,  and, 
without  question,  placed  food  before  me — pressed  on  me 
clothing  and  money — procured  me  a  passport — gave  me 
your  address — and  now  I  am  beneath  your  roof.  Gaw- 
trey, I  knovv  nothing  yet  of  the  world  but  the  dark  side 
of  it.  I  know  not  what  to  deem  of  you  ;  but,  as  you 
alone  have  been  kind  to  me,  so  it  is  to  your  kindness 
rather  than  your  aid  that  I  now  cling — your  kind  words 
and  kind  looks — yet — "  he  stopped  short  and  breathed 
hard. 

"  Yet  you  would  know  more  of  me.  Faith,  my  boy, 
I  cannot  tell  you  more  at  this  moment.  I  believe,  to 
speak  fairly,  I  don't  live  exactly  within  the  pale  of  the 
law.  But  I'm  not  a  villain !  I  never  plundered  my 
friend,  and  called  it  play !  I  never  murdered  my  friend, 
and  called  it  honour  !  I  never  seduced  my  friend's  wife, 
and  called  it  gallantry !"  As  Gawtrey  said  this,  he  drew 
the  words  out,  one  by  one,  through  his  grinded  teeth, 
paused,  and  resumed  more  gayly,  "  I  struggle  with  For- 
tune— vnilii  tout !  I  am  not  what  you  seem  to  suppose 
— exactly  a  swindler,  certainly  not  a  robber!  But,  as  I 
before  told  you,  I  am  a  charlatan  :  so  is  every  man  who 
strives  to  be  richer  or  greater  than  he  is.  I  too  want 
kindness  as  nuich  as  you  do.  My  bread  and  my  cup  are 
at  your  service      I  will  try  and  keep  you  unsullied,  even 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  195 

by  the  clean  dirt  that  now  and  then  sticks  to  me.  On 
the  other  hand,  youth,  my  young  friend,  has  no  right  to 
play  the  censor  ;  and  you  must  take  me  as  you  take  the 
world,  without  being  over  scrupulous  and  dainty.  My 
present  vocation  pays  well ;  in  fact,  I  am  begimiing  to 
lay  by.  My  real  name  and  past  life  are  thoroughly  un- 
known, and,  as  yet,  unsuspected  in  this  quartier ;  for, 
though  I  have  seen  much  of  Paris,  my  career  hitherto 
■  has  passed  in  other  parts  of  the  city ;  and,  for  the  rest, 
own  that  I  am  well  disguised  !  What  a  benevolent  air 
this  bald  forehead  gives  me,  eh  ^  True,"  added  Gaw- 
trey,  somewhat  more  seriously,  "  if  I  saw  how  you  could 
support  yourself  in  a  broader  path  of  life  than  that  in 
which  I  pick  out  my  own  way,  1  might  say  to  you,  as  a 
gay  man  of  fashion  might  say  to  some  sober  stripling — 
nay,  as  many  a  dissolute  father  says  (or  ought  to  say) 
to  his  son,  '  It's  no  reason  you  should  be  a  sinner  be- 
cause I  am  not  a  saint.'  In  a  word,  if  you  were  well  off 
in  a  respectable  profession,  you  miglit  have  safer  ac- 
quaintances than  myself.  But  as  it  is,  upon  my  word 
as  a  plain  man,  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do  better." 
Gawtrey  made  this  speech  with  so  much  frankness  and 
ease,  that  it  seemed  greatly  to  relieve  the  listener ;  and 
when  he  wound  up  with,  "  What  say  you  !  In  fine,  my 
life  is  that  of  a  great  schoolboy,  getting  into  scrapes  for 
the  fun  of  it,  and  fighting  his  way  out  as  he  best  can ! 
Will  you  see  how  you  like  it  T"  Philip,  with  a  confiding 
and  grateful  impulse,  put  his  hand  into  Gawtrey's.  The 
host  shook  it  cordially,  and,  without  saying  another 
word,  showed  his  guest  into  a  little  cabinet  where  there 
was  a  sofa-bed,  and  they  parted  for  the  night. 

The  new  life  upon  which  Philip  Morton  entered  was 
so  odd,  so  grotesque,  and  so  amusing,  that  at  his  age  it 
was  perhaps  natural  that  he  should  not  be  clear-sighted 
as  to  its  danger. 

William  Gawtrey  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  born 
to  exert  a  certain  influence  and  ascendancy  wherever 
they  may  be  thrown  ;  his  vast  strength,  his  redundant 
health,  had  a  power  of  themselves — a  moral  as  well  as 
physical  power.  He  naturally  possessed  high  animal 
spirits,  beneath  the  surface  of  which,  however,  at  times 
there  was  visible  a  certain  under-current  of  malignity 
and  scorn.  He  had  evidently  received  a  superior  edu- 
cation, and  could  command  at  will  the  manners  of  a  man 
not  unfamiliar  with  a  poUter  class  of  society     From  the 


196  NIGHT   AND    MORNING* 

first  hour  Philip  had  seen  him  on  the  top  of  the  coach 

on  the  R road,  this  man  had  attracted  his  curiosity 

and  interest ;  the  conversation  he  had  heard  in  the 
churchyard,  the  obhgations  he  owed  to  Gawtrey  in  his 
escape  from  the  officers  of  justice,  the  time  afterward 
passed  in  his  society  till  they  separated  at  the  little  inn, 
the  rough  and  hearty  kindliness  Gawtrey  had  shown  him 
at  that  period,  and  the  hospitality  extended  to  him  now, 
all  contributed  to  excite  his  fancy,  and  in  much — indeed, 
very  much — entitled  this  singular  person  to  his  gratitude. 
Morton,  in  a  word,  was  fascinated ;  this  man  was  the 
only  friend  he  had  made.  I  have  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  detail  to  the  reader  the  conversations  that  had 
taken  place  between  them  during  that  passage  of  Mor- 
ton's life  when  he  was  before  for  some  days  Gawtrey's 
companion ;  yet  those  conversations  had  sunk  deep  in 
his  mind.  He  was  struck,  and  almost  awed,  by  the  pro- 
found gloom  which  lurked  under  Gawtrey's  broad  hu- 
mour :  a  gloom,  not  of  temperament,  but  of  knowledge. 
His  views  of  life,  of  human  justice  and  human  virtue, 
were  (as,  to  be  sure,  is  commonly  the  case  with  men 
who  have  had  reason  to  quarrel  with  the  world)  dreary 
and  despairing  ;  and  Morton's  own  experience  had  been 
so  sad,  that  these  opinions  were  more  influential  than 
they  could  ever  have  been  with  the  happy.  However, 
in  this,  their  second  reunion,  there  was  a  greater  gayety 
than  in  their  first ;  and,  under  his  host's  roof,  Morton  in- 
sensibly, but  rapidly,  recovered  something  of  the  early 
and  natural  tone  of  his  impetuous  and  ardent  spirits. 
Gawtrey  himself  was  generally  a  boon  companion  ;  their 
society,  if  not  select,  was  merry.  When  their  evenings 
were  disengaged,  Gawtrey  was  fond  of  haunting  cafes 
and  theatres,  and  Morton  was  his  companion ;  Birnie 
(Mr.  Gawtrey's  partner)  never  accompanied  them.  Re- 
freshed by  this  change  of  life,  the  very  person  of  this 
young  man  regained  its  bloom  and  vigour,  as  a  plant,  re- 
moved from  some  choked  atmosphere  and  unwholesome 
soil,  where  it  had  struggled  for  light  and  air,  expands  on 
transplanting ;  the  graceful  leaves  burst  from  the  long, 
drooping  boughs,  and  the  elastic  crest  springs  upward  to 
the  sun  in  the  glory  of  its  young  prime.  If  there  was 
still  a  certain  fiery  sternness  in  liis  aspect,  it  had  ceased, 
at  least,  to  be  liagtjard  and  savage ;  it  even  suited  the 
character  of  his  dark  and  expressive  features.  He  might 
not  have  lost  the  something  of  the  tiger  in  his  fierce  tem^ 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  197 

per,  but  in  the  sleek  hues  and  the  sinewy  symmetry  of 
the  ft-ame  he  began  to  put  forth  also  something  of  the 
tiger's  beauty. 

Mr.  Birnie  did  not  sleep  in  the  house  ;  he  went  home 
nightly  to  a  lodging  at  some  little  distance.  We  have 
said  but  little  about  this  man,  for,  to  all  appearance,  there 
was  little  enough  to  say ;  lie  rarely  opened  his  own 
mouth  except  to  Gawtrey,  with  whom  Philip  often  ob- 
served him  engaged  in  whispered  conferences,  to  which 
he  was  not  admitted.  His  eye,  however,  was  less  idle 
than  his  lips  ;  it  was  not  a  bright  eye  ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  dull,  and,  to  the  unobservant,  lifeless,  of  a  pale 
blue,  with  a  dim  film  over  it — the  eye  of  a  vulture  ;  but 
it  had  in  it  a  calm,  heavy,  stealthy  watchfulness,  which 
inspired  Morton  with  great  distrust  and  aversion.  IMr. 
Birnie  not  only  spoke  French  hke  a  native,  but  all  his 
habits,  his  gestures,  his  tricks  of  manner  were  French ; 
not  the  French  of  good  society,  but  more  idiomatic,  as 
it  were,  and  popular.  He  was  not  exactly  a  vulgar  per- 
son— he  was  too  silent  for  that — but  he  was  evidently  of 
low  extraction  and  coarse  breeding ;  his  accomphshments 
were  of  a  mechanical  nature ;  he  was  an  extraordinary 
arithmetician;  he  was  a  very  skilful  chymist,  and  kept  a 
laboratory  at  his  lodgings  ;  he  mended  his  own  clothes 
and  hnen  with  incomparable  neatness.  Philip  suspected 
him  of  blacking  his  own  shoes — but  that  was  prejudice. 
Once  he  found  iMorton  sketching  horses'  heads — pour  se 
dcsennuyer ;  and  he  made  some  short  criticisms  on  the 
drawings,  which  showed  him  w'ell  acquainted  with  the 
art.  Philip,  surprised,  sought  to  draw  him  into  conver- 
sation;  but  Birnie  eluded  the  attempt,  and  observed  that 
he  had  once  been  an  engraver. 

Gawtrey  himself  did  not  seem  to  know  much  of  the 
early  life  of  this  person,  or,  at  least,  he  did  not  seem  to 
like  much  to  talk  of  him.  The  footstep  of  Mr.  Birnie 
was  gliding,  noiseless,  and  catlike ;  he  had  no  sociality 
in  him — enjoyed  nothing — drank  hard,  but  was  never 
drunk.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had  evidently  over  Gaw- 
trey an  influence  little  less  than  Gawtrey  had  over  IMor- 
ton,  but  it  was  of  a  diflereut  nature  :  Morton  had  con- 
ceived an  extraordinary  afiection  for  his  friend,  while 
Gawtrey  seemed  secretly  to  dislike  Birnie,  and  to  be 
glad  whenever  he  quitted  his  presence.  It  Avas,  in 
truth,  Gawtrey's  custom,  wlicn  Birnie  retired  for  the 
niaht,  to  rub  his  hands,  brmg  out  the  pimch  1*0 wl.  saueeze 
R2 


198  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

the  lemons,  and  while  Philip,  stretched  on  the  sofa,  lis- 
tened to  him,  between  sleep  and  waking,  to  talk  on  for 
the  hour  together,  often  till  daybreak,  with  that  bizarre 
mixture  of  knavery  and  feeling,  drollery  and  sentiment, 
which  made  the  dangerous  charm  of  his  society. 

One  evening,  as  they  thus  sat  together,  Morton,  after 
listening  for  some  time  to  his  companion's  comments  on 
men  and  things,  said  abruptly, 

"  Gawtrey  !  there  is  so  much  in  you  that  puzzles  me, 
so  much  which  I  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  with  your 
present  pursuits,  that,  if  I  ask  no  indiscreet  confidence, 
I  should  like  greatly  to  hear  some  account  of  your  early 
life.  It  would  please  me  to  compare  it  with  my  own ; 
when  I  am  your  age,  I  will  then  look  back  and  see  what 
I  owed  to  your  example." 

"  My  early  life  !  Well — you  shall  hear  it.  It  will  put 
you  on  your  guard,  I  hope,  betimes  agamst  the  two 
rocks  of  youth — love  and  friendship."  Then,  while 
squeezing  the  lemon  into  his  favourite  beverage,  which 
Morton  observed  he  made  stronger  than  usual,  Gawtrey 
thus  commenced 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"All  his  success  must  on  himself  depend, 
He  had  no  money,  counsel,  guide,  or  friend ; 
With  spirit  high,  John  learn'd  the  world  to  brave, 
And  in  both  senses  was  a  ready  knave." — Ckabbe. 

"  Mv  grandfather  sold  walking-sticks  and  umbrellas 
in  the  little  passage  by  Exeter  'Change ;  he  was  a  man 
of  genius  and  speculation.  As  soon  as  he  had  scraped 
together  a  little  money,  he  lent  it  to  some  poor  devil 
with  a  hard  landlord  at  twenty  per  cent.,  and  made  him 
take  half  the  loan  in  umbrellas  or  bamboos.  By  these 
means  he  got  his  foot  into  the  ladder,  and  climbed  up- 
ward and  u])ward,  till,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  had  amass- 
ed jC5000.  He  then  looked  about  for  a  wife.  An  honest 
trader  in  the  Strand,  who  dealt  largely  in  cotton  prints, 
possessed  an  only  daughter;   this  young  lady  had  a 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  199 

legacy,  from  a  great  aunt,  of  £3220,  with  a  small  street 
in  St.  Giles's,  where  the  tenants  paid  weekly  (all  thieves 
or  rogues — all,  so  their  rents  were  sure).  Now  my 
grandfather  conceived  a  great  friendship  for  the  father 
of  this  young  lady  ;  gave  him  a  hint  as  to  a  new  pattern 
in  spotted  cottons ;  enticed  him  to  take  out  a  patent, 
and  lent  him  jC700  for  the  speculation  ;  applied  for  the 
money  at  the  very  moment  cottons  were  at  their  worst, 
and  got  the  daughter  instead  of  the  money ;  by  which 
exchange,  you  see,  he  won  jG2520,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
young  lady.  My  grandfather  then  entered  into  partner- 
ship with  the  worthy  trader,  carried  on  the  patent  with 
spirit,  and  begat  two  sons.  As  he  grew  older,  ambition 
seized  him ;  his  sons  should  be  gentlemen  :  one  was 
sent  to  College,  the  other  put  into  a  marching  regiment. 
My  grandfather  meant  to  die  worth  a  plum  ;  but  a  fever 
he  caught,  in  visiting  his  tenants  in  St.  Giles's,  pre- 
vented him,  and  he  only  left  £20,000,  equally  divided 
between  the  sons.  My  father,  the  College  man"  (here 
Gawtrey  paused  a  moment,  took  a  large  draught  of  the 
punch,  and  resumed  with  a  visible  effort) — "  my  father, 
the  College  man,  was  a  person  of  rigid  principles — bore 
an  excellent  character— had  a  great  regard  for  the 
world.  He  married  early  and  respectably.  I  am  the 
sole  fruit  of  that  union  ;  he  lived  soberly ;  his  temper 
was  harsh  and  morose,  his  home  gloomy ;  he  was  a 
very  severe  father,  and  my  mother  died  before  I  was  ten 
years  old.  When  I  was  fourteen,  a  little  old  Frenchman 
came  to  lodge  with  us  ;  he  had  been  persecuted  under 
the  old  regime  for  being  a  philosopher ;  he  filled  my 
head  with  odd  crotchets,  which,  more  or  less,  have  stuck 
there  ever  since.  At  eighteen  I  was  sent  to  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge.  Rly  father  was  rich  enough  to 
have  let  me  go  up  in  the  higher  rank  of  a  pensioner,  but 
he  had  lately  grown  avaricious  ;  he  thought  that  I  was 
extravagant ;  lie  made  me  a  sizar,  perhaps  to  spite  me. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  those  inequalities  in  life  which 
the  Frenchman  had  dinned  into  my  oars  met  me  practi- 
cally. A  sizar !  another  name  for  a  dog !  I  had  such 
strength,  health,  and  spirits,  that  I  had  more  life  in  my 
little  finger  than  half  the  fellow-commoners — genteel, 
spindle-shanked  striplings,  who  might  have  passed  for  a 
collection  of  my  grandfather's  walking-canes — had  in 
their  whole  bodies.  And  I  often  think,"  continued  Gaw- 
tie^     'that  health  and  spirits  have  a  great  deal  to  an- 


200  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

swer  for!  When  we  are  young  we  so  far  resemble 
savages — who  are  Nature's  young  people — that  we  at- 
tach prodigious  value  to  physical  advantages.  My  feats 
of  strength  and  activity — the  clods  I  thrashed,  and  the 
railings  1  leaped,  and  the  boatraces  I  won — are  they  not 
written  in  the  chronicle  of  St.  John's  1  These  achieve- 
ments inspired  me  with  an  extravagant  sense  of  my 
own  superiority  ;  I  could  not  but  despise  the  rich  fel- 
lows whom  I  could  have  blown  down  with  a  sneeze. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  an  impassable  barrier  between 
me  and  them  :  a  sizar  was  not  a  proper  associate  for 
the  favourites  of  Fortune !  But  there  was  one  young 
man,  a  year  younger  than  myself,  of  high  birth,  and  the 
heir  to  considerable  wealth,  who  did  not  regard  me  with 
the  same  supercilious  insolence  as  the  rest ;  his  very 
rank,  perhaps,  made  him  inditferent  to  the  little  conven- 
tional formalities  which  influence  persons  who  cannot 
play  at  football  with  this  round  world ;  he  was  the 
wildest  youngster  in  the  University — lamp-breaker — 
tandem-driver — mob-fighter — a  very  devil,  in  short — 
clever,  but  not  in  the  reading  line — small  and  slight,  but 
brave  as  a  lion.  Congenial  habits  made  us  intimate,  and 
I  loved  him  like  a  brother — better  than  a  brother — as  a 
dog  loves  his  master.  In  all  our  rows  I  covered  him 
with  my  body.  He  had  but  to  say  to  me,  '  Leap  into 
the  water,'  and  I  would  not  have  stopped  to  pull  oflf  my 
coat.  In  short,  I  loved  him  as  a  proud  man  loves  one 
who  stands  betwixt  him  and  contempt — as  an  affection- 
ate man  loves  one  who  stands  between  him  and  soli- 
tude. To  cut  short  a  long  story,  my  friend,  one  dark 
night,  committed  an  outrage  against  discipline  of  the 
most  unpardonable  character.  There  was  a  sanctimoni- 
ous, grave  old  fellow  of  the  College  crawling  home  from 
a  tea-party ;  my  friend  and  another  of  his  set  seized, 
blindfolded,  and  handcuffed  this  poor  wretch ;  carried 
him,  vi  ct  armis,  back  to  the  house  of  an  old  maid  whom 
he  had  been  courting  for  the  last  ten  years,  fastened  his 
pigtail  (he  wore  a  long  one)  to  the  knocker,  and  so  left 
him.  Yon  may  imagine  the  infernal  hubbub  which  his 
attempts  to  extricate  liimself  caused  in  the  wliole  street ; 
the  old  maid's  old  maid-servant,  after  emjttying  on  his 
head  all  tlu;  vessels  of  wrath  she  could  lay  her  hand  to, 
scrcanicd  '  Rape  and  murder!'  The  proctor  and  his 
bulldogs  came  up,  rehnised  the  prisoner,  and  gave  chase 
to  the  dehnquents,  who  had  incautiously  remained  near 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  201 

to  enjoy  the  sport.  The  night  was  dark,  and  they 
reached  the  College  in  safety,  but  tliey  had  been  tracked 
to  the  gates.     For  this  offence  /  was  expelled." 

"  Why,  you  were  not  concerned  in  it !"  said  Philip. 

"  No  ;  but  1  was  suspected  and  accused.  I  could  have 
got  off  by  betraying  the  true  culprits ;  but  my  friend's 
father  was  in  public  life — a  stern,  haughty  old  states- 
man :  young  Lilburne  was  mortally  afraid  of  him — the 
only  person  he  ivas  afraid  of.  If  I  had  too  much  insist- 
ed on  my  innocence,  I  might  have  set  inquiry  on  the 
right  track.  In  fine,  I  was  happy  to  prove  my  friend- 
ship for  him.  He  shook  me  most  tenderly  by  the  hand 
on  parting,  and  promised  never  to  forget  my  generous 
devotion.  I  went  home  in  disgrace  :  I  need  not  tell  you 
what  my  father  said  to  me  ;  I  do  not  think  he  ever  loved 
me  from  that  hour.  Shortly  after  this,  my  uncle, 
George  Gawtrey,  the  captain,  returned  from  abroad  ;  he 
took  a  great  fancy  to  me,  and  I  left  my  father's  house 
(which  had  grown  insufferable)  to  live  with  him.  He 
had  been  a  very  handsome  man — a  gay  spendthrift ;  he 
had  got  through  his  fortune,  and  now  lived  on  his  wits 
— he  was  a  professed  gambler.  His  easy  temper,  his 
lively  humour  fascinated  me  ;  he  knew  the  world  well ; 
and,  hke  all  gamblers,  was  generous  when  the  dice  were 
lucky — which,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  they  generally  were 
with  a  man  who  had  no  scruples.  Though  his  practices 
were  a  little  suspected,  they  had  never  been  discovered. 
We  lived  in  an  elegant  apartment,  mixed  familiarly  with 
men  of  various  ranks,  and  enjoyed  life  extremely.  I 
brushed  off  my  College  rust,  and  conceived  a  taste  for 
expense  :  I  knew  not  why  it  was,  but  in  my  new  ex- 
istence every  one  was  kind  to  me  ;  to  be  sure,  they  were 
all  ne  vaut  riens,  and  I  had  spirits  that  made  me  welcome 
everywhere.  I  was  a  scamp — but  a  frolicksome  scamp 
— and  that  is  always  a  popular  character.  As  yet  I  was 
not  dishonest,  but  saw  dishonesty  around  me,  and  it 
seemed  a  very  pleasant,  jolly  mode  of  making  money  ; 
and  now  I  again  fell  into  contact  with  the  young  heir. 
My  College  friend  was  as  wild  in  London  as  he  had 
been  at  Cambridge  ;  but  the  boy-ruffian,  though  not  then 
twenty  years  of  age,  had  grown  into  a  man-villain." 

Here  Gawtrey  paused  and  frowned  darkly. 

"  He  had  great  natural  parts,  this  young  man — much 
wit,  readiness,  and  cunning,  and  he  became  very  inti- 
mate with  my  uncle.    He  learned  of  him  how  to  play 


202  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

the  dice  and  to  pack  the  cards — ^he  paid  him  JCIOOO  for 
the  knowledge !" 

"  How  !  a  cheat  1  You  said  he  was  rich." 
"  His  father  was  very  rich,  and  he  had  a  hberal  allow- 
ance, but  he  was  very  extravagant ;  and  rich  men  love 
gain  as  well  as  poor  men  do  !  He  had  no  excuse  but 
the  grand  excuse  for  all  vice — Selfishness.  Young  as 
he  was,  he  became  the  fashion,  and  he  fattened  upon  the 
plunder  of  his  equals,  who  desired  the  honour  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. Now  I  had  seen  my  uncle  cheat,  but  I  had 
never  imitated  his  example ;  when  the  man  of  fashion 
cheated,  and  made  a  jest  of  his  earnings  and  my  scru- 
ples—when I  saw  him  courted,  flattered,  honoured,  and 
his  acts  unsuspected,  because  his  connexions  embraced 
half  the  peerage,  the  temptation  grew  strong,  but  I  still 
resisted  it.  However,  my  father  always  said  I  was  born 
to  be  a  good-for-nothing,  and  I  could  not  escape  my  des- 
tiny. And  now  I  suddenly  fell  in  love  :  you  don't  know 
what  that  is  yet — so  much  the  better  for  you.  The  girl 
was  beautiful,  and  I  thought  she  loved  me — perhaps  she 
did — but  I  was  too  poor,  so  her  friends  said,  for  mar- 
riage. We  courted,  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  mean  while. 
It  was  my  love  f'^r  her,  my  wish  to  deserve  her,  that 
made  me  iron  against  my  friend's  example.  I  was  fool 
enough  to  speak  to  him  of  Mary — to  present  him  to  her : 
this  ended  in  her  seduction."  (Again  Gawtrey  paused 
and  breathed  hard.)  "  I  discovered  the  treachery — I 
called  out  the  seducer ;  he  sneered,  and  refused  to  fight 
the  lowborn  adventurer.  I  struck  him  to  the  earth,  and 
then  we  fought ;  I  was  satisfied  by  a  ball  through  my 
side !  but  he"  added  Gawtrey,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
with  a  vindictive  chuckle,  "  he  was  a  cripple  for  life ! 
When  I  recovered,  I  found  that  my  foe,  whose  sick 
chamber  was  crowded  with  friends  and  comforters,  had 
taken  advantage  of  my  illness  to  ruin  my  reputation. 
He,  the  swindler,  accused  me  of  his  own  crime :  the 
equivocal  character  of  my  uncle  confirmed  the  charge. 
Him,  his  own  highborn  pupil  was  enabled  to  unmask, 
and  his  disgrace  was  visited  on  me.  I  left  my  bed  to 
find  my  uncle  (all  disguise  over)  an  avowed  partner  in 
a  hell ;  and  myself,  blasted  alike  in  name,  love,  past  and 
future.  And  then,  Philip — then  I  recommenced  that 
career  which  I  have  trodden  since,  the  prince  of  good- 
fellows  and  good-for-nothings,  with  ten  thousand  alias- 
es, and  as  many  strings  to  my  bow.     Society  cast  me 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  203 

off  when  I  was  innocent.  Egad,  1  have  had  my  revenge 
on  society  since  !     Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !" 

The  laugh  of  this  man  had  in  it  a  moral  infection. 
There  was  a  sort  of  glorying  in  its  deep  tone ;  it  was 
not  the  hollow  hysteric  of  shame  and  despair — it  spoke 
a  sanguine  joyousness  !  William  Gawtrey  was  a  man 
whose  animal  constitution  had  led  him  to  take  animal 
pleasure  in  all  things  :  he  had  enjoyed  the  poisons  he 
had  lived  on. 

"  But  your  father — surely  your  father — " 

"  My  father,"  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "  refused  me  the 
money  (but  a  small  sum)  that,  once  struck  with  the 
strong  impulse  of  a  sincere  penitence,  I  begged  of  him 
to  enable  me  to  get  an  honest  living  in  an  humble  trade  : 
his  refusal  soured  the  penitence  ;  it  gave  me  an  excuse 
for  my  career  ;  and  conscience  grapples  to  an  excuse  as 
a  drowning  wretch  to  a  straw.  And  yet  this  hard  fa- 
ther— this  cautious,  moral,  money-loving  man — three 
months  afterward,  suffered  a  rogue — almost  a  stranger 
— to  decoy  him  into  a  speculation  that  promised  to  bring 
him  fifty  per  cent.  :  he  invested  in  the  traffic  of  usury 
what  had  sufficed  to  save  a  hundred  such  as  I  am  from 
perdition,  and  he  lost  it  all ;  it  was  nearly  his  whole  for- 
tune, but  he  lives,  and  has  his  luxuries  still :  he  cannot 
speculate,  but  he  can  save  :  he  cared  not  if  I  starved,  for 
he  finds  an  hourly  happiness  in  starving  himself." 

"  And  your  friend,"  said  Phihp,  after  a  pause,  in  which 
his  young  sympathies  went  dangerously  with  the  excu- 
ses for  his  benefactor,  "  what  has  become  of  him,  and 
the  poor  girl  V 

"  My  friend  became  a  great  man ;  he  succeeded  to 
his  father's  peerage — a  very  ancient  one — and  to  a 
splendid  income.  He  is  living  still.  Well,  you  shall 
hear  about  the  poor  girl !  We  are  told  of  victims  of 
seduction  dying  in  a  workhouse  or  on  a  dunghill,  peni- 
tent, broken-hearted,  and  uncommonly  ragged  and  sen- 
timental ;  may  be  a  frequent  ease,  but  it  is  not  the 
worst.  It  is  worse,  I  think,  when  the  fair,  penitent,  in- 
nocent, credulous  dupe  becomes  in  her  turn  the  deceiv- 
er ;  when  she  catches  vice  from  the  breath  upon  which 
she  has  hung  ;  when  she  ripens,  and  mellows,  and  rots 
away  into  painted,  blazing,  staring,  wholesale  harlotry ; 
when,  in  her  turn,  she  ruins  warm  youth  with  false 
smiles  and  long  bills  ;  and  when,  worse,  worse  than  all, 
tvhenshehas  children — daughters,  perhaps— brought  up 


S04  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

to  the  same  trade,  cooped,  plumped  for  some  hoary  lech- 
er, without  a  heart  in  their  bosoms,  unless  a  balance  for 
weighing  money  may  be  called  a  heart :  Mary  became 
this  ;  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  she  had  rather  died  in  an 
hospital !  Her  lover  polluted  her  soul  as  well  as  her 
beauty  :  he  found  her  another  lover  when  he  was  tired 
of  her.  When  she  was  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  I  met 
her  in  Paris  with  a  daughter  of  sixteen.  I  was  then 
flush  with  money,  frequenting  salons,  and  playing  the 
part  of  a  fine  gentleman ;  she  did  not  know  me  at  first, 
and  she  sought  my  acquaintance.  For  you  must  know, 
my  dear  friend,"  said  Gawtrey,  abruptly  breaking  off 
the  thread  of  his  narrative,  "  that  I  am  not  altogether 
the  low  dog  you  might  suppose  in  seeing  me  here.  At 
Paris — ah !  you  don't  know  Paris — there  is  a  glorious 
ferment  in  society,  in  Avhich  the  dregs  are  often  upper- 
most. I  came  here  at  the  Peace  ;  and  here  have  I  re- 
sided the  greater  part  of  each  year  ever  since.  The 
vast  masses  of  energy  and  life,  broken  up  by  the  great 
thaw  of  the  Imperial  system,  floating  along  the  tide,  are 
terrible  icebergs  for  the  vessel  of  the  state.  Some 
think  Napoleonism  over :  its  eff'ects  are  only  begun. 
Society  is  shattered  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  I 
laugh  at  the  little  rivets  by  which  they  think  to  keep  it 
together.  But  to  return  :  Paris,  I  say,  is  the  atmo- 
sphere for  adventurers ;  new  faces  and  new  men  are  so 
common  here  that  they  excite  no  impertinent  inquiry,  it 
is  so  usual  to  see  fortunes  made  in  a  day  and  spent  in  a 
month  ;  except  in  certain  circles,  there  is  no  walking 
round  a  man's  character  to  spy  out  where  it  wants  pie- 
cing !  Some  lean  Greek  poet  put  lead  in  his  pockets 
to  prevent  being  blown  away  ;  put  gold  in  your  pock- 
ets, and  at  Paris  you  may  defy  the  sharpest  wind  in  the 
world — yea,  even  the  breath  of  that  old  jEoIus — Scan- 
dal !  Well,  then,  I  had  money — no  matter  how  I  came 
by  it — and  health,  and  gayety  ;  and  I  was  well  received 
in  the  coteries  that  exist  in  all  capitals,  but  mostly 
in  France,  where  pleasure  is  the  cement  that  joins 
many  discordant  atoms  :  here,  I  say,  I  met  Mary,  and 
her  daughter  by  my  old  friend — the  daughter,  still  inno- 
cent, but,  sacre !  in  what  an  element  of  vice  !  We  knew 
each  other's  secrets,  Mary  and  I,  and  kept  them  :  she 
thought  me  a  greater  knave  tlian  I  was,  and  she  in- 
trusted to  me  her  intention  of  selling  h(!r  cliild  to  a  rich 
English  marquis.     On  the  other  hand,  the  poor  girl 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  205 

confided  to  me  her  horror  of  the  scenes  she  witnessed 
and  the  snares  that  surrounded  her.  What  do  you 
think  preserved  her  pure  from  all  danger  ]  Bah  !  you 
will  never  guess !  It  was  partly  because,  if  example 
corrupts,  it  as  often  deters,  but  principally  because  she 
loved.  A  girl  who  loves  one  man  purely  has  about  her 
an  amulet  which  defies  the  advances  of  the  profligate. 
There  was  a  handsome  young  Italian,  an  artist,  who 
frequented  the  house — he  was  the  man.  I  had  to 
choose,  then,  between  mother  and  daughter :  1  chose 
the  last." 

Philip  seized  hold  of  Gawtrey's  hand,  grasped  it 
warmly,  and  the  Good-for-nothing  continued  : 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  loved  that  girl  as  well  as  I  had 
ever  loved  the  mother,  though  in  another  way  ]  She 
was  what  I  had  fancied  the  mother  to  be ;  still  more 
fair,  more  graceful,  more  winning,  with  a  heart  as  full 
of  love  as  her  mother's  had  been  of  vanity.  I  loved 
that  child  as  if  she  had  been  my  own  daughter ;  I  in- 
duced her  to  leave  her  mother's  house — I  secreted  her 
— I  saw  her  married  to  the  man  she  loved — I  gave  her 
away,  and  saw  no  more  of  her  for  several  months." 

"  Why !" 

"  Because  I  spent  them  in  prison !  The  young  peo- 
ple could  not  live  upon  air ;  I  gave  them  what  I  had, 
and,  in  order  to  do  more,  I  did  something  which  dis- 
pleased the  police.  I  narrowly  escaped  that  time  >  but 
I  am  popular — very  popular;  and,  with  plenty  of  wit- 
nesses, not  over  scrupulous,  I  got  off" !  When  I  was  re- 
leased, I  would  not  go  to  see  them,  for  my  clothes  were 
ragged :  the  police  stiU  watched  me,  and  I  would  not 
do  them  harm  in  the  world  !  Ay,  poor  wretches !  they 
struggled  so  hard  :  he  could  get  very  little  by  his  art, 
though  I  believe  he  was  a  cleverish  fellow  at  it,  and  the 
money  I  had  given  them  could  not  last  for  ever.  They 
lived  near  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  at  night  I  used  to 
steal  out  and  look  at  them  through  the  window.  They 
seemed  so  happy,  and  so  handsome,  and  so  good ;  but 
he  looked  sickly,  and  I  saw  that,  Uke  all  Italians,  he 
languished  for  his  own  warm  climate.  But  man  is 
born  to  act  as  well  as  to  contemplate,"  pursued  Gaw- 
trey,-  changing  his  tone  into  the  allegro,  "  and  I  was 
soon  driven  into  my  old  ways,  though  in  a  lower  line. 
I  went  to  London  just  to  give  my  reputation  an  airing; 
and  when  I  returned,  pretty  flush  again,  the  poor  Italian 

Vol.  I.— S 


206  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

was  dead,  and  Fanny  was  a  widow,  with  one  boy,  and 
enceinte  with  a  second  child.  So  then  I  sought  her 
again,  for  her  mother  had  found  her  out,  and  was  at  her 
with  her  deviUsh  kindness ;  but  Heaven  was  merciful, 
and  took  her  away  from  both  of  us  :  she  died  in  giving 
birth  to  a  girl,  and  her  last  words  were  uttered  to  me, 
imploring  me — the  adventurer — the  charlatan — the  good- 
for-nothing — to  keep  her  child  from  the  clutches  of  her 
own  mother.  Well,  sir,  I  did  what  I  could  for  both  the 
children ;  but  the  boy  was  consumptive,  like  his  father, 
and  sleeps  at  Pere  la  Chaise.  The  girl  is  here — you 
shall  see  her  some  day.  Poor  Fanny  !  if  ever  the  devil 
will  let  me,  I  shall  reform  for  her  sake ;  meanwhile, 
for  her  sake  I  must  get  grist  for  the  mill.  My  story  is 
concluded,  for  I  need  not  tell  you  of  all  my  pranks — 
of  all  the  parts  I  have  played  in  hfe.  1  have  never  been 
a  murderer,  or  a  burglar,  or  a  highway  robber,  or  what 
the  law  calls  a  thief.  I  can  only  say  as  I  said  before,  I 
have  lived  upon  my  wits,  and  they  have  been  a  tolerable 
capital  on  the  whole.  I  have  been  an  actor,  a  money- 
lender, a  physician,  a  professor  of  animal  magnetism 
{that  was  lucrative  till  it  went  out  of  fashion — perhaps 
it  will  come  in  again) ;  I  have  been  a  lawyer,  a  house- 
agent,  a  dealer  in  curiosities  and  china ;  I  have  kept  a 
hotel ;  I  have  set  up  a  weekly  newspaper  ;  1  have  seen 
almost  every  city  in  Europe,  and  made  acquaintance 
with  some  of  its  jails :  but  a  man  who  has  plenty  of 
brains  generally  falls  on  his  legs." 

"  And  your  father?"  said  Philip  :  and  here  he  inform- 
ed Gawtrey  of  the  conversation  he  had  overheard  in  the 
churchyard,  but  on  which  a  scruple  of  natural  delicacy 
had  hitherto  kept  him  silent. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  his  host,  while  a  slight  blush  rose 
to  his  cheeks, "  I  will  tell  you,  that  though  to  my  father's 
sternness  and  avarice  I  attribute  many  of  my  faults,  I 
yet  always  had  a  sort  of  love  for  him  ;  and  when  in 
London,  I  accidentally  heard  that  he  was  growing  blind, 
and  living  with  an  artful  old  jade  of  a  housekeeper,  who 
might  send  him  to  rest  with  a  dose  of  magnesia  the 
night  after  she  had  coaxed  liim  to  make  a  will  in  her  fa- 
vour, I  sought  him  out — and — But  you  say  you  heard 
what  passed?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  heard  him  also  call  you  by  name  when 
it  was  too  late,  and  T  saw  tlie  tears  on  his  cheeks." 

"  Did  you  ?     Will  you  swear  to  that  1"  exclaimed 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  207 

Gawtrey,  with  vehemence  ;  and  then  shading  his  brow 
with  his  hand,  he  fell  into  a  revery  that  lasted  some  mo- 
ments. "  If  anything  happen  to  me,  Philip,"  he  said, 
abruptly,  "  perhaps  he  may  yet  be  a  father  to  poor  Fan- 
ny ;  and  if  he  takes  to  her,  she  will  repay  him  for  what- 
ever pain  I  may,  perhaps,  have  cost  him.  Stop !  now  I 
think  of  it,  I  will  write  down  his  address  for  you — never 
forget  it — there  !     It  is  time  to  go  to  bed." 

Gawtrey's  tale  made  a  deep  impression  on  Philip.  He 
was  too  young,  too  inexperienced,  too  much  borne  away 
by  the  passion  of  the  narrator  to  see  that  Gawtrey  had 
less  cause  to  blame  Fate  than  himself.  True,  he  had 
been  unjustly  implicated  in  the  disgrace  of  an  unworthy 
uncle  ;  but  he  had  lived  with  that  uncle,  though  he  knew 
him  to  be  a  common  cheat :  true,  he  had  been  betrayed 
by  a  friend  ;  but  he  had  before  known  that  friend  to  be  a 
man  without  principle  or  honour.  But  what  wonder 
that  an  ardent  boy  saw  nothing  of  this — saw  only  the 
good  heart  that  had  saved  a  poor  girl  from  vice,  and 
sighed  to  relieve  a  harsh  and  avaricious  parent  ?  Even 
the  hints  that  Gawtrey  unawares  let  fall,  of  practices 
scarcely  covered  by  the  jovial  phrase  of  "  a  great  school- 
boy's scrapes,"  either  escaped  the  notice  of  Philip,  or 
were  charitably  construed  by  him,  in  the  compassion 
and  the  ignorance  of  a  young,  hasty,  and  greatful  heart. 


CHAPTER  JV. 

"  And  she's  a  stranger  ! 
Women— beware  women." — Middleton 

"  As  we  love  our  youngest  children  best, 
So  the  last  fruit  of  our  affection, 
Wherever  we  bestow  it,  is  most  strong  ; 
Since  'tis  indeed  our  latest  harvest-home, 
Last  inerri.Tient  'fore  winter  I" 

Webster  :  Devil's  Law  Case. 

"  I  would  fain  know  what  kind  thing  a  man's  heart  is? 
I  will  report  it  to  you  :  'tis  a  thing  framed 
With  divers  corners  I" — Rowley. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Gawtrey's  tale  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  Philip ;  that  impression  was  increased  by  suo- 
sequent  conversations,  more  frank  even  than  their  t»lk 


208  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

had  hitherto  been.  There  was  certainly  abov.t  this  man 
a  fatal  charm  which  concealed  his  vices.  It  arose,  per- 
haps, from  the  perfect  combination  of  his  physical  frame  ; 
from  a  health  which  made  his  spirits  buoyant  and  hearty 
imder  all  circumstances ;  and  a  blood  so  fresh,  so  san- 
guine, that  it  could  not  fail  to  keep  the  pores  of  the  heart 
open.  But  he  was  not  the  less — for  all  his  kindly  im- 
pulses and  generous  feelings,  and  despite  the  mamier  in 
which,  naturally  anxious  to  make  the  least  unfavourable 
portrait  of  himself  to  Philip,  he  softened  and  glossed 
over  the  practices  of  his  life — a  thorough  and  complete 
rogue  ;  a  dangerous,  desperate,  reckless  dare-devil :  it 
was  easy  to  see  when  anything  crossed  him,  by  the 
cloud  on  his  shaggy  brow,  by  the  swelling  of  the  veins 
on  the  forehead,  by  the  dilation  of  the  broad  nostril,  that 
he  was  one  to  cut  his  way  through  every  obstacle  to  an 
end — choleric,  impetuous,  fierce,  determined ;  such,  in- 
deed, were  the  qualities  that  made  him  respected  among 
his  associates,  as  his  more  bland  and  humorous  ones 
made  him  beloved :  he  was,  in  fact,  the  incarnation  of 
that  great  spirit  which  the  laws  of  the  world  raise  up 
against  the  world,  and  by  which  the  world's  injustice, 
on  a  large  scale,  is  awfully  chastised ;  on  a  small  scale, 
merely  nibbled  at  and  harassed,  as  the  rat  that  gnaws 
the  hoof  of  the  elephant :  the  spirit  which,  on  a  vast  the- 
atre, rises  up,  gigantic  and  sublime,  in  the  heroes  of  war 
and  revolution— in  Mirabeaus,  Marats,  Napoleons  ;  on  a 
minor  stage,  it  shows  itself  in  demagogues,  fanatical 
philosophers,  and  mob-writers ;  and  on  the  forbidden 
boards,  before  whose  reeking  lamps  outcasts  sit,  at  once 
audience  and  actors,  it  never  produced  a  knave  more 
consummate  in  his  part,  or  carrying  it  off  with  more 
buskined  dignity,  than  "William  Gawtrey.  I  call  him  by 
his  aboriginal  name  ;  as  for  his  other  appellations,  Bac- 
chus himself  had  not  so  many  ! 

One  day  a  lady,  richly  dressed,  was  ushered  by  Mr. 
Birnie  into  the  bureau  of  Mr.  Love,  alias  Gawtrey.  Phil- 
ip was  seated  by  the  window,  reading,  for  the  first  time, 
the  "  Candide  ;"  that  work,  next  to  "  Rasselas,"  the  most 
hopeless  and  gloomy  of  the  sports  of  genius  with  man- 
kind. The  lady  seemed  rather  embarrassed  when  she 
perceived  Mr.  Love  was  not  alone.  She  drew  back,  and, 
drawing  her  veil  still  more  closely  around  her,  said  in 
French, 

"  Pardon  mc,  I  would  wish  a  private  conversation." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  209 

Philip  rose  to  withdraw,  when  the  lady,  observing  him 
with  eyes  whose  lustre  shone  through  the  veil,  said 
gently, 

"  But  perhaps  the  young  gentleman  is  discreet." 

"  He  is  not  discreet,  he  is  discretion ! — my  adopted 
son.  You  may  confide  in  him — upon  my  honour  you 
may,  madam !"  and  Mr.  Love  placed  his  hand  on  his 
heart. 

"  He  is  very  young,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  invol- 
untary compassion,  as,  with  a  very  white  hand,  she  un- 
clasped the  buckle  of  her  cloak. 

"  He  can  the  better  understand  the  curse  of  celibacy," 
returned  Mr.  Love,  smiling. 

The  lady  lifted  part  of  her  veil,  and  discovered  a  hand- 
some mouth,  and  a  set  of  small,  white  teeth ;  for  she 
too  smiled,  though  gravely,  as  she  turned  to  Morton 
and  said, 

"  You  seem,  sir,  more  fitted  to  be  a  votary  of  the  tem- 
ple than  one  of  its  officers.  However,  Monsieur  Love, 
let  there  be  no  mistake  between  us  :  I  do  not  come  here 
to  form  a  marriage,  but  to  prevent  one.  I  understand 
that  Monsieur  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  has  called  into 
request  your  services.  I  am  one  of  the  vicomte's  fami- 
ly ;  we  are  all  anxious  that  he  should  not  contract  an 
engagement  of  the  strange,  and,  pardon  me,  unbecoming 
character  which  must  stamp  a  union  formed  at  a  public 
office." 

"  I  assure  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Love,  with  dignity, 
"  that  we  have  contributed  to  the  very  first — " 

"  Mon  Dieu  .'"  interrupted  the  lady,  with  much  impa- 
tience, "  spare  me  a  eulogy  on  your  establishment :  I 
have  no  doubt  it  is  very  respectable  ;  and  for  grisettes 
and  epicicrs  may  do  extremely  well.  But  the  vicomte  is 
a  man  of  birth  and  connexions.  In  a  word,  what  he 
contemplates  is  preposterous.  I  know  not  what  fee 
Monsieur  Love  expects  ;  but  if  he  contrive  to  amuse 
Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  and  to  frustrate  every  connex- 
ion he  proposes  to  form,  that  fee,  whatever  it  may  be, 
shall  be  doubled.     Do  you  understand  me  1" 

"  Perfectly,  madam  ;  yet  it  is  not  your  offer  that  will 
bias  me,  but  the  desire  to  oblige  so  charming  a  lady." 

"  It  is  agieed,  then  V  said  the  lady,  carelessly  ;  and, 
as  she  spoke,  she  again  glanced  at  Philip. 

"  If  madame  will  call  again,  I  will  inform  her  of  my 
plans,"  said  Mr.  Love. 

Si2 


210  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"Yes,  I  will  call  again.  Good-morning!"  As  she 
rose  and  passed  Philip,  she  wholly  put  aside  her  veil, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  gaze  entirely  free  from  co- 
quetry, but  curious,  searching,  and  perhaps  admiring : 
the  look  that  an  artist  may  give  to  a  picture  that  seems 
of  more  value  than  the  place  where  he  finds  it  would 
seem  to  indicate.  The  countenance  of  the  lady  herself 
was  fair  and  noble,  and  Philip  felt  a  strange  thrill  at  his 
heart,  as,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head,  she  turn- 
ed from  the  room. 

"  Ah !"  said  Gawtrey,  laughing,  "  this  is  not  the  first 
time  I  have  been  paid  by  relations  to  break  off  the  mar- 
riages I  had  formed.  Egad !  if  one  could  open  a  bureau 
to  make  married  people  single,  one  would  be  a  Croesus 
in  no  time !  Well,  then,  this  decides  me  to  complete 
the  union  between  Monsieur  Goupille  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Courval.  I  had  balanced  a  little  hitherto  between 
the  epicier  and  the  viconite.  Now  I  will  conclude  mat- 
ters. Do  you  know,  Phil,  I  think  you  have  made  a  con- 
quest V 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Philip,  colouring. 

In  effect,  that  very  evening  Mr.  Love  saw  both  the 
epicier  and  Adele,  and  fixed  the  marriage-day.  As  Mon- 
sieur Goupille  was  a  person  of  great  distinction  in  the 
faubourg,  this  wedding  was  one  that  Mr.  Love  congratu- 
lated himself  greatly  upon  ;  and  he  cheerfully  accepted 
an  invitation  for  himself  and  his  partners  to  honour  the 
noces  with  their  presence. 

A  night  or  two  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage 
of  Monsieur  Goupille  and  the  aristocratic  Adele,  when 
Mr.  Birnie  had  retired,  Gawtrey  made  his  usual  prep- 
arations for  enjoying  himself.  But  this  time  the  cigar 
and  the  punch  seemed  to  fail  of  their  effect ;  Gawtrey 
remained  moody  and  silent ;  and  Morton  was  thinking 
of  the  bright  eyes  of  the  lady  who  was  so  much  inter- 
ested against  the  amours  of  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont. 

At  last  Gawtrey  broke  silence  ; 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  told  you  of  my  little 
protege — I  have  been  buying  toys  for  her  this  morning 
— she  is  a  beautiful  creature  :  to-morrow  is  her  birthday 
—she  will  then  be  six  years  old.  But — but — "  here 
Gawtrey  sighed,  "  I  fear  she  is  not  all  right  here,"  and 
he  touched  his  forehead. 

"  I  should  like  much  to  see  her,"  said  Philip,  not  no- 
ticing the  latter  remark. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  211 

^  And  you  shall ;  you  shall  come  with  me  to-morrow. 
Heighho  !  I  should  not  like  to  die  for  her  sake  !" 
' "  Does  her  wretched  relation  attempt  to  regain  her  1" 

"  Her  relation !  No  ;  she  is  no  more — she  died  about 
two  years  since !  Poor  Mary !  I — well,  this  is  folly. 
But  Fanny  is  at  present  in  a  convent ;  they  are  all  kind 
to  her,  but  then  I  pay  well ;  if  I  were  dead  and  the  pay 
stopped,  again  I  ask,  what  would  become  of  her,  unless, 
as  I  before  said,  my  father — " 

"  But  you  are  making  a  fortune  now  V 

"  If  this  lasts — yes  ;  but  I  live  in  fear  :  the  police  of 
this  cursed  city  are  lynx-eyed :  however,  that  is  the 
bright  side  of  the  question." 

"  Why  not  have  the  child  with  you,  since  you  love  her 
so  much  ^     She  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  you." 

"  Is  this  a  place  for  a  child— a  girlV  said  Gawtrey, 
stamping  his  foot  impatiently.  "  I  should  go  mad  if  I 
saw  that  villanous  dead  man's  eye  bent  upon  her !" 

"  You  speak  of  Birnie.     How  can  you  endure  him  V 

"  When  you  are  my  age  you  will  know  why  we  en- 
dure what  we  dread — why  we  make  friends  of  those 
who  else  would  be  most  horrible  foes  :  no,  no,  nothing 
can  deliver  me  of  this  man  but  Death.  And — and — " 
added  Gawtrey,  turning  pale,  "  I  cannot  murder  a  man 
who  eats  my  bread.  There  are  stronger  ties,  my  lad, 
than  affection,  that  bind  men  like  galley-slaves  together. 
He  who  can  hang  you  puts  the  halter  round  your  neck, 
and  leads  you  by  it  Uke  a  dog." 

A  shudder  came  over  the  young  listener.  And  what 
dark  secrets,  known  only  to  those  two,  had  bound,  to  a 
man  seemingly  his  subordinate  and  tool,  the  strong  will 
and  resolute  temper  of  William  Gawtrey  ^ 

"  But  begone, dull  care!"  exclaimed  Gawtrey, rousing 
himself.  "  And,  after  all,  Birnie  is  a  useful  fellow,  and 
dare  no  more  turn  against  me  than  I  against  him  I  Why 
don't  you  drink  more  1 

*  Oh  !  have  you  e'er  heard  of  the  famed  Captain  Wattle  V  " 

and  Gawtrey  broke  out  into  a  loud  Bacchanalian  hymn, 
in  which  PhiUp  could  find  no  mirth,  and  from  wliich  the 
songster  suddenly  paused  to  exclaim, 

"  Mind  you  say  nothing  about  Fanny  to  Birnie  ;  my 
secrets  with  him  are  not  of  that  nature.  He  could  not 
hurt  her,  poor  Iamb !  it  is  true — at  least,  as  far  as  I  can 


S12  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

foresee.  But  one  can  never  feel  too  sure  of  one's  lamb 
if  one  once  introduces  it  to  the  butcher  !" 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  the  bureau  was  closed, 
and  Philip  and  Gawtrey  repaired  to  the  convent.  It 
was  a  dismal-looking  place  as  to  the  exterior ;  but  with-' 
in  there  was  a  large  gardenj  well  kept,  and,  notwith- 
standing the  winter,  it  seemed  fair  and  refreshing  com- 
pared with  the  polluted  streets.  The  window  of  the 
room  into  which  they  were  shown  looked  upon  the 
greensward,  with  walls  covered  with  ivy  at  the  farther 
end.  And  Philip's  own  childhood  came  back  to  him  as 
he  gazed  on  the  quiet  of  the  lonely  place. 

The  door  opened  :  an  infant  voice  was  heard ;  a  voice 
of  glee — of  rapture  ;  and  a  child,  light  and  beautiful  as 
a  fairy,  bounded  to  Gawtrey's  breast. 

NestUng  there,  she  kissed  his  face,  his  hands,  his 
clothes,  with  a  passion  that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to 
her  age,  laughing  and  sobbing  almost  at  a  breath. 

On  his  part,  Gawtrey  appeared  equally  affected ;  he 
stroked  down  her  hair  with  his  huge  hand,  calling  her 
all  manner  of  pet  names,  in  a  tremulous  voice  that  vain- 
ly struggled  to  be  gay. 

At  length  he  took  the  toys  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  his  capacious  pockets,  and,  strewing  them  on  the 
floor,  fairly  stretched  his  vast  bulk  along ;  while  the 
child  tumbled  over  him,  sometimes  grasping  at  the  toys, 
and  then  again  returning  to  his  bosom  and  laying  her 
head  there,  looked  up  quietly  into  his  eyes,  as  if  the  joy 
were  too  much  for  her. 

Morton,  unheeded  by  both,  stood  by  with  folded  arms. 
He  thought  of  his  lost  and  ungrateful  brother,  and  mut- 
tered to  himself, 

"  Fool !  when  she  is  older  she  will  forsake  him  !" 

Fanny  betrayed  in  her  face  the  Italian  origin  of  her 
father.  She  had  that  exceeding  richness  of  complexion 
which,  though  not  common  even  in  Italy,  is  only  to  be 
found  in  the  daughters  of  that  land,  and  which  harmo- 
nized well  with  the  purple  lustre  of  her  hair,  and  the  full, 
clear  iris  of  the  dark  eyes.  Never  were  parted  cherries 
brighter  than  her  dewy  lips  ;  and  the  colour  of  the  open 
neck  and  tlie  rounded  arms  was  of  a  whiteness  still 
more  dazzling,  from  the  darkness  of  the  hair  and  the 
carnation  of  the  glowing  cheek. 

Suddenly  Fanny  started  from  Gawtrey's  arms,  and, 
nnming  up  to  Morton,  gazed  at  him  wistfully,  and  said 
in  French, 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  213 

"  Who  are  you  1  Do  you  come  from  the  moon  t  I 
think  you  do."  Then,  stopping  abruptly,  she  broke  into 
a  verse  of  a  nursery-song,  which  she  chanted  with  a 
low,  listless  tone,  as  if  she  were  not  conscious  of  the 
sense.  As  she  thus  sung,  Morton,  looking  at  her,  felt  a 
strange  and  painful  doubt  seize  him.  The  child's  eyes, 
though  soft,  were  so  vacant  in  their  gaze. 

"  And  why  do  I  come  from  the  moonl"  said  he. 

"  Because  you  look  sad  and  cross.  I  don't  like  you — 
I  don't  like  the  moon,  it  gives  me  a  pain  here  I"  and  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  temples.  "  Have  you  got  anything 
for  Fanny — poor,  poor  Fanny  1"  and,  dwelling  on  the 
epithet,  she  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"  You  are  rich  Fanny,  with  all  those  toys." 

"  Am  1 1  Everybody  calls  me  poor  Fanny — every- 
body but  papa ;"  and  she  ran  again  to  Gawtrey,  and  laid 
her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  She  calls  me  papa !"  said  Gawtrey,  kissing  her ; 
"  you  hear  it !     Bless  her !" 

"  And  you  never  kiss  any  one  but  Fanny — you  have 
no  other  httle  girH"  said  the  child,  earnestly,  and  with 
a  look  less  vacant  than  that  which  had  saddened  Morton. 

"  No  other — no — nothing  under  Heaven,  and  perhaps 
above  it,  but  you  I"  and  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 
"  But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "  but  mind  me,  Fanny, 
you  must  like  this  gentleman.  He  will  be  always  good 
to  you ;  and  he  had  a  little  brother  whom  he  was  as 
fond  of  as  I  am  of  you." 

"  No,  I  won't  like  him — I  won't  like  anybody  but  you 
and  my  sister!" 

"  Sister !     Who  is  your  sister  V 

The  child's  face  relapsed  into  an  expression  almost 
of  idiotcy.  "  I  don't  know ;  I  never  saw  her.  I  hear 
her  sometimes,  but  I  don't  understand  what  she  says. 
Hush !  come  here !"  and  she  stole  to  the  window  on 
tiptoe.     Gawtrey  followed  and  looked  out. 

"  Do  you  hear  her  now  V  said  Fanny.  "  What  does 
she  say  V 

As  the  girl  spoke,  some  bird  among  the  evergreens 
uttered  a  shrill,  plaintive  cry  rather  than  song  :  a  sound 
that  the  thrush  occasionally  makes  in  the  winter,  and 
which  seems  to  express  something  of  fear,  and  pain,  and 
impatience. 

"  What  does  she  say?  Can  you  tell  me  V  asked  the 
child. 


^14  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Pooh  !  that  is  a  bird  :  why  do  you  call  it  your  sis- 
ter V 

"  I  don't  know  !  because  it  is — because  it — because — 
I  don't  know — is  it  not  in  pain  ]  Do  something  for  it, 
papa !" 

Gawtrey  glanced  at  Morton,  whose  face  betokened  his 
deep  pity,  and,  creeping  up  to  him,  whispered, 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  really  touched  here "?     No,  no, 
she  will  outgrow  it — I  am  sure  she  will !" 
Morton  sighed. 

Fanny  by  this  time  had  again  seated  herself  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  arranged  her  toys,  but  without 
seeming  to  take  pleasure  in  them. 

At  last  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to  depart.  The  lay  sis- 
ter who  had  charge  of  Fanny  was  summoned  into  the 
parlour,  and  then  the  child's  manner  entirely  changed  : 
her  face  grew  purple  ;  she  sobbed  with  as  much  anger 
as  grief :  "  She  would  not  leave  papa ;  she  would  not 
go — that  she  would  not !" 

"  It  is  always  so,"  whispered  Gawtrey  to  Morton,  in 
an  abashed  and  apologetic  voice.  "  It  is  so  difficult  to 
get  away  from  her.  Just  go  and  talk  with  her  while  1 
steal  out." 

Morton  went  to  her  as  she  struggled  with  the  patient, 
good-natured  sister,  and  began  to  sooth  and  caress  her, 
till  she  turned  on  him  her  large  humid  eyes,  and  said 
mournfully, 

"  Tu  cs  mechant,  tu.     Poor  Fanny  I" 
"  But  this  pretty  doll — "  began  the  sister. 
The  child  looked  at  it  joylessly. 
"  And  papa  is  going  to  die  !" 

"  Whenever  monsieur  goes,"  whispered  the  nun,  "  she 
always  says  that  he  is  dead,  and  cries  herself  quietly  to 
sleep ;  when  monsieur  returns,  she  says  he  is  come  to 
life  again.  Some  one,  I  suppose,  once  talked  to  her 
about  death ;  and  she  thinks,  when  she  loses  sight  of 
any  one,  that  that  is  death." 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Morton,  with  a  trembling  voice. 
The  child  looked  up,  smiled,  stroked  his  cheek  with 
her  little  hand,  and  said, 

"  Thank  you  !  Yes  !  poor  Fanny !  Ah,  he  is  going — 
see  ! — let  me  go  too — /;/  cs  mechant.'''' 

"But,"  said  Morton,  detaining  her  gently,  "do  you 
know  that  you  give  him  paini  You  make  him  cry  by 
showing  pain  yourself.    Don't  make  him  so  sad !" 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  216 

The  child  seemed  struck ;  hung  down  her  head  for  a 
moment,  as  if  in  thought ;  and  then,  jumping  from  Mor- 
ton's lap,  ran  to  Gawtrey,  put  up  her  pouting  lips,  and 
said, 

"  One  kiss  more  !" 

Gawtrey  kissed  her  and  turned  away  his  head. 

"  Fanny  is  a  good  girl ;"  and  Fanny,  as  she  spoke, 
went  back  to  Morton,  and  put  her  little  fingers  into  her 
eyes,  as  if  either  to  shut  out  Gawtrey's  retreat  from  her 
sight,  or  to  press  back  her  tears. 

"  Give  me  the  doll  now.  Sister  Marie." 

Morton  smiled  and  sighed ;  placed  the  child,  who 
struggled  no  more,  in  the  nun's  arms,  and  left  the  room ; 
but,  as  he  closed  the  door,  he  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
Fanny  had  escaped  from  the  sister,  thrown  herself  on 
the  floor,  and  was  crying,  but  not  aloud. 

"  Is  she  not  a  little  darling  V  said  Gawtrey,  as  they 
gained  the  street. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  most  beautiful  child  !" 

"  And  you  will  love  her  if  I  leave  her  penniless,"  said 
Gawtrey,  abruptly.  "  It  was  your  love  for  your  mother 
and  your  brother  that  made  me  like  yoic  from  the  first. 
Ay,"  continued  Gawtrey,  in  a  tone  of  great  earnestness, 
"  ay;  and,  whatever  may  happen  to  me,  I  will  strive  and 
keep  you,  my  poor  lad,  harmless,  and,  what  is  better, 
innocent  even  of  such  matters  as  sit  light  enough  on  my 
own  well-seasoned  conscience.  In  turn,  if  ever  you 
have  the  power,  be  good  to  her — yes,  be  good  to  her !  I 
won't  say  a  harsh  word  to  you  if  ever  you  like  to  turn 
king's  evidence  against  myself." 

"  Gawtrey !"  said  Morton,  reproachfully,  and  almost 
fiercely. 

"  Bah  !  such  things  are !  But,  tell  me  honestly,  do 
you  think  she  is  ven/  strange — very  deficient  V 

"  I  have  not  seen  enougli  of  her  to  judge,"  answered 
Morton,  evasively. 

"She  is  so  changeful!"  persisted  Gawtrey;  "some- 
times you  would  say  that  she  was  above  her  age,  she 
comes  out  with  such  thoughtful,  clever  things  ;  then,  the 
next  moment,  she  throws  me  into  despair.  These  nuns 
are  very  skilful  in  education — at  least  they  are  said  to 
be  so.  The  doctors  give  me  hope,  too ;  you  see  her 
poor  mother  was  very  unhappy  at  the  time  of  her  birth 
'—delirious,  indeed — that  may  account  for  it.  I  often 
fancy  that  it  is  the  constant  excitement  which  her  stale 


216  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

occasions  me  that  makes  me  love  her  so  much  ;  you  see 
she  is  one  who  can  never  shift  for  herself.  I  must  get 
money  for  her ;  I  have  left  a  little  already  with  the  su- 
perior, and  I  would  not  touch  it  to  save  myself  from 
famine !  If  she  has  money,  people  will  be  kind  enough 
to  her.  And  then,"  continued  Gawtrey,  "  you  must  per- 
ceive that  she  loves  nothing  in  the  world  but  me — me, 
whom  nobody  else  loves !  Well,  well,  now  to  the  shop 
again !" 

On  returning  home,  the  bonne  informed  them  that  a 
lady  had  called,  and  asked  both  for  Monsieur  Love  and 
the  young  gentleman,  and  seemed  much  chagrined  at 
missing  both.  By  the  description,  Morton  guessed  she 
was  the  fair  incognita,  and  felt  disappointed  at  having 
lost  the  interview. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade, 
Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 
In  witching  wise,  as  I  before  have  said ; 
But  when  he  saw,  in  goodly  gear  arrayed, 
The  grave,  majestic  knight  approaching  nigh, 
His  countenance  fell." 

Thomson  :  Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  moniing  rose  that  was  to  unite  Monsieur  Goupille 
with  Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval.  The  ceremony 
was  performed,  and  bride  and  bridegroom  went  through 
that  trying  ordeal  with  becoming  gravity.  Only  the 
elegant  Adeie  seemed  more  unaffectedly  agitated  than 
Mr.  Love  could  well  account  for ;  she  was  very  nervous 
in  church,  and  more  often  turned  her  eyes  to  the  door 
than  to  the  altar.  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  run  away; 
but  it  was  either  too  late  or  too  early  for  that  proceed- 
ing. The  rite  performed,  the  happy  pair  and  their 
friends  adjourned  to  the  Cadran  Bleu,  that  restaurant  so 
celebrated  in  the  festivities  of  the  good  citizens  of  Paris. 
Here  Mr.  Love  had  ordered,  at  the  epicier''s  expense,  a 
most  tasteful  entertainment. 

"  Sanre !  but  you  have  not  played  the  economist. 
Monsieur  Lofe,"  said  Monsieur  (ioupille,  rather  queru- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING,  217 

fously,  as  he  glanced  at  the  long  room  adorned  with 
artificial  flowers,  and  the  table  u  cinquante  converts. 

"  Bah!"  replied  Mr.  Love,  "you  can  retrench  after 
ward.     Think  of  the  fortune  she  brought  you.'' 

"  It  is  a  pretty  sum,  certainly,"  said  Monsieur  Goupille, 
"and  the  notary  is  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  There  is  not  a  marriage  in  Paris  that  does  me  more 
credit,"  said  Mr.  Love ;  and  he  marched  off  to  receive 
the  compliments  and  congratulations  that  awaited  him 
among  such  of  the  guests  as  were  avj^are  of  his  good 
offices.  The  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  was,  of  course,  not 
present.  He  had  not  been  near  ^][r.  Love  since  Adele 
had  accepted  the  epicier.  But  Madame  Beavor,  in  a 
white  bonnet  lined  with  lilach,  was  hanging  sentiment- 
ally on  the  arm  of  the  Pole,  who  looked  very  grand  with 
his  white  favour ;  and  Mr.  Higgins  had  been  introduced 
by  Mr.  Love  to  a  little  dark  Creole,  who  wore  paste 
diamonds,  and  had  very  languishing  eyes  ;  so  that  Mr. 
Love's  heart  might  well  swell  with  satisfaction  at  the 
prospect  of  the  various  blisses  to  come,  which  might 
owe  their  origin  to  his  benevolence.  In  fact,  that  arch- 
priest  of  the  T-emple  of  Hymen  was  never  more  great 
than  he  >yas  that  day  ;  never  did  his  establishment  seem 
more  solid,  his  reputation  more  popular,  or  his  fortune 
piore  sure.     He  was  the  life  of  the  party. 

The  banquet  over,  the  revellers  prepared  for  a  dance. 
Monsieur  Goupille,  in  tights,  still  tighter  than  he  usually 
wore,  and  of  a  rich  nankeen,  quite  new,  with  striped 
gilk  stockings,  opened  the  ball  with  the  lady  of  a  rich 
pdtissier  in  the  same  faubourg ;  Mr.  Love  took  out  the 
bride.  The  evening  advanced ;  and,  after  several  other 
dances  of  ceremony,  Monsieur  Goupille  conceived  him 
self  entitled  to  dedicate  one  to  connubial  affection.  A 
country-dance  was  called,  and  the  epicier  claimed  the 
fair  hand  of  the  gentle  Adple.  About  this  time,  two 
persons,  not  hitherto  perceived,  had  quietly  entered  the 
room,  and,  standing  near  the  doorway,  seemed  examin- 
ing the  dancers,  as  if  in  search  for  some  one.  They 
bebbed  their  hea(}s  up  and  down,  to  and  fro— now 
stooped,  now  stood  on  tiptoe.  The  one  was  a  tall,  large- 
whiskered,  fair-haired  man ;  the  other  a  little,  thin, 
neatly  dressed  person,  who  kept  his  hand  gn  the  arm  of 
his  companion,  and  whispered  to  him  from  time  to  time. 
The  whiskered  gentleman  replied  in  a  guttural  tone, 
which  proclaimed  his  origin  to  be  German.     The  busy 

Vol.  L— T  ^ 


218  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

dancers  did  not  perceive  the  strangers.  The  by-standers 
did,  and  a  hum  of  curiosity  circled  round :  who  could 
they  be  1  who  had  invited  them  t  ihey  were  new  faces 
in  the  faubourg — perhaps  relations  to  Adele  ? 

In  high  delight,  the  fair  bride  was  skipping  down  the 
middle,  while  Monsieur  Goupille,  wiping  his  forehead 
with  care,  admired  her  agility ;  when,  lo  and  behold ! 
the  whiskered  gentleman  1  have  described  abruptly  ad- 
vanced from  his  companion,  and  cried, 

"  La  voild  !  sacre  tonnerre  .'" 

At  that  voice — at  that  apparition,  the  bride  halted ; 
so  suddenly,  indeed,  that  she  had  not  time  to  put  down 
both  feet,  but  remained  with  one  high  in  air,  while  the 
other  sustained  itself  on  the  light  fantastic  toe.  The 
company  naturally  imagined  this  to  be  an  operatic  flour- 
ish which  called  for  approbation.  Monsieur  Love,  who 
was  thundering  down  behind  her,  cried  "  Bravo !"  and 
as  the  well-grown  gentleman  had  to  make  a  sweep  to 
avoid  disturbing  her  equilibrium,  he  came  full  against 
the  whiskered  stranger,  and  sent  him  off  as  a  bat  sends 
a  ball. 

"  Mon  Dieu .'"  cried  Monsieur  Goupille.  "  Ma  douce 
amie — she  has  fainted  away !"  And,  indeed,  Adele  had 
no  sooner  recovered  her  balance,  than  she  resigned  it 
once  more  into  the  arms  of  the  startled  Pole,  who  was 
happily  at  hand. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  German  stranger,  who  had 
saved  himself  from  falling  by  coming  with  his  full  force 
upon  the  toes  of  Mr,  Iliggins,  again  advanced  to  the  spot, 
and,  rudely  seizing  the  fair  bride  by  the  arm,  exclaimed, 

"  No  sham,  if  you  please,  madame.  Speak!  What 
the  devil  have  you  done  with  the  money  ]" 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  Monsieur  Goupille,  drawing  up  his 
cravat, "  this  is  very  extraordinary  conduct !  What  have 
you  got  to  say  to  this  lady's  money  1  It  is  my  money 
now,  sir !" 

"  Oho !  it  is,  is  it  1  We'll  soon  see  that.  Approqhez 
done.  Monsieur  Favarl,  faites  votrc  devoir.'''' 

At  these  words,  the  small  companion  of  the  stranger 
slowly  sauntered  to  the  spot,  while,  at  the  sound  of  his 
name  and  the  tread  of  his  step,  the  throng  gavp  way  to 
tlie  riglit  and  left :  for  Monsieur  Favart  was  one  of  the 
jnost  ndiowncd  chiefs  of  the  great  Parisian  police — a 
man  worthy  to  be  the  contemporary  of  the  illustrious 
Vidocq. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  219 

"  Calmez  vous,  messieurs  ;  do  not  be  alarmed,  ladies," 
said  this  gentleman,  in  the  mildest  of  all  human  voices  ; 
and,  certainly,  no  oil  dropped  on  tlie  waters  ever  pro- 
duced so  tranquillizing  an  effect  as  that  small,  feeble, 
gentle  tenour.  The  Pole,  in  especial,  who  was  holding 
the  fair  bride  with  both  his  arms,  shook  all  over,  and 
seemed  about  to  let  his  burden  graduall}'  slide  to  the 
floor,  when  Monsieur  Favart,  looking  at  him  with  a  be- 
nevolent smile,  said, 

"  Aha,  mon  brave  !  c'est  toi.  Restez  done.  Restez,  ten- 
ant toujours  la  dame  .'" 

The  Pole,  thus  condemned,  in  the  French  idiom,  "  al- 
ways  to  hold  the  dame^''  mechanically  raised  the  arms  he 
had  previously  dejected,  and  the  police  officer,  with  an 
approving  nod  of  the  head,  said, 

"  Bon  !  ne  bougez  point,  c''est  (^a  .'" 

Monsieur  Goupille,  in  equal  surprise  and  indignation 
to  see  his  belter  half  thus  consigned,  without  any  care 
to  his  own  marital  feelings,  to  the  arms  of  another,  was 
about  to  snatch  her  from  the  Pole,  when  Monsieur  Fa- 
vart, touching  him  on  the  breast  with  his  little  finger, 
said,  in  the  suavest  manner, 

"  Man  bourgeois,  meddle  not  with  what  does  not  con- 
cern you !" 

"  With  what  does  not  concern  me .'"  replied  Monsieur 
Goupille,  drawing  himself  up  to  so  great  a  stretch  that 
he  seemed  pulling  off  his  tights  the  wrong  way.  "  Ex- 
plain yourself,  if  you  please  !     This  lady  is  my  wife  !" 

"  Say  that  again — that's  all !"  cried  the  whiskered 
stranger,  in  most  horrible  French,  and  with  a  furious 
grimace,  as  he  shook  both  his  fists  under  the  nose  of  the 
epicier. 

"  Say  it  again,  sir,"  said  Monsieur  Goupille,  by  no 
means  daunted ;  "  and  why  should  not  I  say  it  again  ? 
That  lady  is  my  wife  !" 

"  You  lie  !  she  is  mine  /"  cried  the  German  :  and,  bend- 
ing down,  he  caught  the  fair  Adele  from  the  Pole  with 
as  little  ceremony  as  if  she  had  never  had  a  great 
grandfather  a  marquis,  and  giving  her  a  shake  that  might 
have  roused  the  dead,  thundered  out, 

"  Spekk !  Madame  Bihl !     Are  you  my  wife  or  not  V 

'■'■  Monstre  V  murmured  Adele,  opening  her  eyes. 

"There — you  hear — she  owns  me  !"  said  the  German, 
appealing  to  the  company  with  a  triumphant  air. 

"  Cest  vrai .'"  said  the  soft  voice  of  the  policeman. 


1220  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  And  now,  pray  don't  let  us  disturb  your  amuserrients 
any  longer.  We  have  a  fiacre  at  the  door.  Remove 
your  lady,  Monsieur  Bihl." 

"  Monsieur  Lofe  !  Monsieur  Ldfe  !"  cried,  or,  rather, 
sneered  the  epicier,  darting  across  the  room,  and  seizing 
the  chef  by  the  tail  of  his  coat  just  as  he  was  half  tvay 
through  the  door,  "  come  back  !  Quelle  mauvais  plai- 
santerie  me  faites  vous  igi !  Did  you  not  tell  me  that 
lady  was  single  1  Am  I  marHed  or  not  ]  Do  I  stand  on 
my  head  or  my  heels  V\ 

"  Hush — hush  !  nlon  hon  bourgeois .'"  Whispered  Mr. 
Love  ;  "  all  shall  be  explained  to-morrow!" 

"  Who  is  this  gentleman  V  asked  Monsieur  Favart, 
approaching  Mr.  Love,  who,  seeing  himself  in  for  it, 
suddenly  jerked  off- the  epicier,  thrust  his  hands  dovrn 
into  his  breeches  pockets,  buried  his  chin  in  his  cravat, 
elevated  his  eyebrows,  screwed  in  his  eyes,  and  puffed 
out  his  cheeks,  so  that  the  astonished  Monsieur  Gou- 
pille  really  thought  himself  beWitched,  and  literally  did 
not  recognisfei  the  face  of  the  matchmaker. 

"Who  is  this  gentleman  ^"repeated  the  little  officerj 
standing  beside,  or,  rather,  below  Mr.  Love,  and  looking 
so  dimiimtive  by  the  contrast  that  you  might  have  fan- 
cied that  the  Priest  of  Hymen  had  Only  to  breathe  to 
blow  him  away. 

"Who  should  he  be,  monsieur?"  cried,  with  great 
pertness,  Madame  Rosalie  Caumartiri,  coming  to  the  re- 
lief with  the  generosity  of  her  sex:  "  this  is  Monsieur 
Lofe — Anglais  celebre.  What  have  you  to  say  against 
him?" 

"  He  has  got  500  francs  of  mine  !"  cried  the  epicier. 

The  policeman  scanned  Mr.  Love  with  great  attention. 
"  So  you  are  in  Paris  again  !  Hein  !  vous  jouez  toujdul-s 
voire  role  .'" 

"  Mafoi .'"  sdid  Mr.  Love,  boldly,  "  I  don't  understand 
what  monsieur  means  ;  my  character  is  well  known ;  go 
and  inquire  it  in  London — ask  the  secretary  of  foreign 
affairs  wliat  is  said  of  me — inquire  of  my  ambassador — 
demand  of  my — " 

"  Voire  passeport,  monsieur  .^" 

"  It  is  at  home.  A  gentleman  does  not  carry  his  pass- 
{)ort  in  his  pocket  when  he  goes  to  a  ball !" 

"  I  will  call  and  see  it  :•  au  revoir!  Take  my  advice, 
and  leave  Paris  ;  I  think  I  have  seen  you  somewhere  '." 

"  Yet  I  liave  never  had  the  honour  to  marry  mon- 
sieur !"  said  Mr.  Love,  with  a  polite  bow. 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  221 

In  return  for  his  joke,  the  policeman  gave  Mr.  Love 
one  look — it  was  a  quiet  look,  very  quiet ;  but  Mr.  Love 
seemed  uncommonly  affected  by  it ;  he  did  not  say 
another  virord,  but  found  himself  outside  the  house  in  a 
twinkling.  Monsieur  Favart  turned  round,  and  saw  the 
Pole  making  himself  as  small  as  possible  behind  the 
goodly  proportions  of  Madame  Beavor. 

"  What  name  does  that  gentleman  go  by "?" 

"  So — vo — lofski,  the  heroic  Pole,"  cried  Madame 
Beavor,  with  sundry  misgivings  at  the  unexpected  cow- 
ardice of  so  great  a  patriot. 

"  Hein  I  take  care  of  yourselves,  ladies.  I  have  no- 
thing against  that  person  this  time.  But  Monsieur  La- 
tour  has  served  his  apprenticeship  at  the  galleys,  and  is 
no  more  a  Pole  than  I  am  a  Jew." 

"  And  this  lady's  fortune !"  cried  Monsieur  Goupille, 
pathetically  ;  "  the  settlements  are  all  made,  the  notaries 
all  paid.    I  am  sure  that  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

Monsieur  Bihl,  who  had  by  this  time  restored  his  lost 
Helen  to  her  senses,  stalked  up  to  the  epicier,  dragging 
the  lady  along  with  him. 

"  Sir,  there  is  no  mistake  !  But,  when  I  have  got  the 
money,  if  you  like  to  have  the  lady,  you  are  welcome  to 
her." 

"  Monstre .'"  again  muttered  the  fair  Adele. 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it,"  said  Monsieur  Favart, 
*'  is,  that  Monsieur  Bihl  is  a  brave  garqon,  and  has  been 
half  over  the  world  as  a  courier." 

"  A  courier !"  exclaimed  several  voices. 

"  Madame  was  nursery-governess  to  an  English  mi- 
lord.  They  married,  and  quarrelled —no  harm  in  that, 
mcs  amis — nothing  more  common.  Monsieur  Bihl  is  a 
very  failliful  fellow  ;  nursed  his  last  master  in  an  illness 
that  ended  fatally,  because  he  travelled  with  his  doctor. 
Milord  left  him  a  handsome  legacy  ;  he  retired  from  ser- 
vice, and  fell  ill,  perhaps  from  idleness  or  beer.  Is  not 
that  the  story,  Monsieur  Bihl  V 

"  He  was  always  drunk — the  wretch  !"  sobbed  Adele. 

"That  was  to  drown  my  domestic  sorrows,"  said  the 
German ;  "  and,  when  I  was  sick  in  my  bed,  madame 
ran  off  with  my  money.  Thanks  to  monsieur,  I  have 
found  both,  and  I  wish  you  a  very  good-night." 

"  Dansez  vous  toujovrs,  mes  mnis,"  said  the  officer, 
bowing.  And,  following  Adele  and  her  spouse,  the  little 
man  left  th-e  room — where  he  had  caused,  in  chests  so 
T2 


^§2 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 


broad  and  limbs  so  doughty,  much  the  same  consterna- 
tion as  that  which  some  diminutive  ferret  occasions  in 
a  bprrow  of  rabbits  twice  his  size. 

Morton  had  outstayed  Mr.  Love.  But  he  thought  it 
unnecessary  to  hnger  long  after  that  gentleman's  depart- 
ure ;  and,  in  the  general  hubbub  that  ensued,  he  crept 
out  unperceived,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  bureau.  He 
found  Mr.  Love  and  Mr.  Birnie  already  engaged  in  pack- 
ing up  their  effects.  "  Why,  when  did  you  leave  ]"  said 
Morton  to  Mr.  Birnie. 

"  I  saw  the  policeman  enter." 

"  And  why  the  deuse  did  not  ydu  tell  us  V  said  Gdw- 
trey. 

"  Every  man  for  himself.  Besides,  Mr.  Love  was 
dancing,"  replied  Mr.  Birnie,  with  a  dull  glance  of  dis- 
dain. 

"  Philosophy!"  muttered  Gawtrey,  thrusting  his  dress- 
coat  into  his  trunk ;  then  suddenly  changing  his  voice, 
"  Ha !  ha !  it  was  a  very  good  joke,  after  all — own  1  did 
it  well.  Ecod !  if  he  had  not  given  me  that  look,  I  think 
I  should  have  turned  the  tables  on  him.  But  those  d — d 
fellows  learn  of  the  mad  doctors  how  to  tame  us.  Faith, 
my  heart  went  down  to  my  shoes — yet  I'm  no  coward  !" 

"  But,  after  all,  he  evidently  did  not  know  you,"  said 
Morton ;  "  and  what  has  he  to  say  against  you  ?  Your 
trade  is  a  strange  one,  but  not  dishonest.  Why  give  up 
as  if—" 

"  My  young  friend,"  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "  whether 
the  officer  comes  after  us  or  not,  our  trade  is  ruined : 
that  infernal  Adele,  with  her  fabulous  grandmaman,  has 
done  for  us.  Goupille  will  blow  the  temple  about  our 
ears.     No  help  for  it — eh,  Birnie  V 

"  None." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Philip :  we'll  call  thee  at  daybreak,  for 
we  must  make  clear  work  before  our  neighbours  open 
tlieir  shutters." 

Reclined,  but  half  undressed,  on  his  bed  in  the  little 
babinet,  Mdrton  revolved  the  events  of  the  evening. 
The  thought  that  he  should  see  no  more  of  that  white 
hand  and  that  lovely  mouth,  which  still  haunted  his  rec- 
ollection as  appertaining  to  the  incognita,  greatly  indis- 
posed him  towards  the  abrupt  flight  intended  by  Gaw- 
trey, wliile  (so  much  had  his  faitli  in  that  person  de*- 
Jiended  upon  respect  for  his  confident  daring,  and  so 
thoroughly  fearless  wa3  Morton's  own  nature)  he  felt 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  22^ 

himself  greatly  shaken  in  his  allegiance  to  the  ciiief  by 
recollecting  the  effect  produced  on  his  valour  by  a  sin- 
gle glance  from  the  instrument  of  law.  He  had  not  yet 
lived  long  enough  to  be  aware  that  men  are  sometimes 
the  representatives  of  things ;  that  what  the  scytale  was 
to  the  Spartan  hero,  a  sheriffs  writ  often  is  to  a  Wa- 
terloo medallist ;  that  a  Bow-street  runner  will  enter 
the  foulest  den,  where  murder  sits  with  his  fellows, 
and  pick  out  his  prey  with  the  beck  of  his  fore-finger. 
That,  in  short,  the  thing  called  Law,  once  made  tangi- 
ble and  present,  rarely  fails  to  palsy  the  fierce  heart  of 
the  thing  called  Crime.  For  Law  is  the  symbol  of  all 
mankind  reared  against  one  foe — the  Man  of  Crime. 
Not  yet  aware  of  this  truth,  nor,  indeed,  in  the  least 
suspecting  Gawtrey  of  worse  offences  than  those  of  a 
charlatanic  and  equivocal  profession,  the  young  man 
mused  over  his  protector's  cowardice  in  disdain  and 
wonder ;  till,  wearied  with  conjectures,  distrust,  and 
shame  at  his  own  strange  position  of  obligation  to  ond 
whom  he  could  not  respect,  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  woke  he  saw  the  gray  light  of  dawn,  that 
streamed  cheerlessly  through  his  shutterless  window^ 
struggling  with  the  faint  ray  of  a  candle  that  Gawtrey^ 
shading  with  his  hand,  held  over  the  sleeper,  tie  started 
up,  and,  in  the  confusion  of  waking  and  the  imperfect 
light  by  which  he  beheld  the  strong  features  of  Gaw- 
trey, half  imagined  it  was  a  foe  who  stood  before  him. 

"  Take  care,  man!"  said  Gawtrey,  as  Morton,  in  this 
belief,  grasped  his  arm.  "  You  have  a  precious  rough 
gripe  of  your  own.  Be  quiet,  will  you  1  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  you."  Here  Gawtrey,  placing  the  candle  on 
a  chair,  returned  to  the  door  and  closed  it. 

"  Look  you,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  have  nearly 
ran  through  my  circle  of  invention,  and  my  wit,  fertile 
as  it  is,  can  present  to  me  little  encouragement  in  the 
future.  The  eyes  of  this  Favart,  once  on  me,  every  dis- 
guise and  every  double  will  not  long  avail.  I  dare  not 
return  to  London ;  I  am  too  well  knowil  in  Brussells, 
Berlin,  and  Vienna — " 

"  But,"  interrupted  Morton,  raising  himself  on  his  arm^ 
and  fixing  his  dark  eyes  upon  his  host,  "  but  you  have 
told  me  again  and  again  that  you  have  committed  no 
crime — why,  then,  be  so  fearful  of  discovery  V 

"  Why  I"  repeated  Gawtrey,  with  a  slight  hesitation 
Which  he  instantly  overcame,  "why!    Have  not  you 


224  I^lGHT   AND   MORNING. 

yourself  learned  that  appearances  have  the  effect  of 
crimes  1  Were  you  not  chased  as  a  thief  when  I  res- 
cued you  from  your  foe,  the  Law  1  Are  you  not,  though 
a  boy  in  years,  under  an  alias,  and  an  exile  from  your 
own  land  1  And  how  can  you  put  these  austere  ques- 
tions to  me,  who  am  growing  gray  in  the  endeavour  to 
extract  sunbeams  from  cucumbers — subsistence  from 
poverty  1  I  repeat  that  there  are  reasons  why  I  must 
avoid,  for  the  present,  the  great  capitals.  I  must  sink 
in  life,  and  take  to  the  provinces.  Birnie  is  sanguine  as 
ever  ;  but  he  is  a  terrible  sort  of  comforter.  Enough  of 
that.  Now  to  yourself.  Our  savings  are  less  than  you 
might  expect ;  to  be  sure  Bi*rnie  has  been  treasurer,  and 
I  have  laid  by  a  little  for  Fanny,  which  I  will  rather 
starve  than  touch.  There  remain,  however,  150  Napo- 
leons, and  our  effects,  sold  at  a  fourth  their  value,  will 
fetch  150  more.  Here  is  your  share.  1  have  compas- 
sion on  you.  I  told  you  I  would  bear  you  harmless  and 
innocent.     Leave  us  while  yet  time." 

It  seemed,  then,  to  Morton  that  Gawtrey  had  divined 
his  thoughts  of  shame  and  escape  of  the  previous  night ; 
perhaps  Gawtrey  had  :  and  such  is  the  human  heart, 
that,  instead  of  welcoming  the  very  release  he  had  half 
contemplated,  now  that  it  was  offered  him,  Philip  shrunk 
from  it  as  a  base  desertion. 

"  Poor  Gawtrey !"  said  he,  pushing  back  the  canvass 
bag  of  gold  held  out  to  him,  "  you  shall  not  go  over  the 
world,  and  feel  that  the  orphan  you  fed  and  fostered  left 
you  to  starve  with  your  money  in  his  pocket.  When 
you  again  assure  me  that  you  have  committed  no  crime, 
you  again  remind  me  that  gratitude  has  no  right  to  be 
severe  upon  the  shifts  and  errors  of  its  benefactor.  If 
you  do  not  conform  to  society,  what  has  society  done 
for  me  ]  No  !  I  will  not  forsake  you  in  a  reverse.  For- 
tune has  given  you  a  fall.  What,  then,  courage,  and  at 
her  again !" 

These  last  words  were  said  so  heartily  and  cheerful- 
ly as  Morton  sprung  from  the  bed,  that  it  inspirited  Gaw- 
trey, who  had  really  desponded  of  his  lot. 

*'  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  reject  the  only  friend  left 
me  ;  and  while  I  live — But  1  will  make  no  professions. 
Quick,  then ;  our  luggage  is  already  gone,  and  I  hear 
Birnie  grunting  the  rogue's  march  of  retreat." 

Morton's  toilet  was  soon  completed,  and  the  three  as- 
Bociates  bade  adieu  to  the  bureau^ 


NIGriT    AND    MORNING.  225 

Birnie,  who  was  taciturn  and  inrpenetrable  as  ever, 
walked  a  little  before  as  guide.  They  arrived,  at  length, 
at  a  serrurier's  shop,  placed  in  an  alley  near  the  Porte 
St.  Denis.  The  serrurier  himself,  a  tall,  begrimed,  black- 
bearded  man,  was  taking  the  shutters  from  his  shop  as 
they  approached.  He  and  Birnie  exchanged  silent  nods  ; 
and  the  former,  leaving  his  work,  conducted  them  up  a 
very  filthy  flight  of  stairs  to  an  attic,  where  a  bed,  two 
Stools,  one  table,  and  an  old  walnut-tree  bureau  formed 
the  sole  articles  of  furniture.  Gawtrey  looked  rather 
ruefully  round  the  black,  low,  damp  walls,  and  said,  in  a 
crestfallen  tone, 

"  We  were  better  off  at  the  Temple  Of  Hymen.  But 
get  us  a  bottle  of  wine^  some  eggs,  and  a  frying-pan — 
by  Jove,  I  am  a  capital  hand  at  an  omelet !" 

The  sejrrurier  nodded  again,  grinned,  and  withdrew. 

"  Rest  here,"  said  Birnie,  in  his  calm,  passionless 
voice,  that  seemed  to  Morton,  however,  to  assume  an 
unwonted  tone  of  command.  "  I  will  go  and  make  the 
best  bargain  I  can  for  our  furniture,  buy  fresh  clothes, 
and  engage  our  places  for  Tours." 

"For  Tours'!"  repeated  Morton. 

"  Yes — there  are  some  English  there ;  one  can  live 
wherever  there  are  English,"  said  Gawtrey. 

"  Hum  !"  grunted  Birnie,  dryly ;  and,  buttoning  up  his 
Coat,  he  walked  slowly  away. 

About  noon  he  returned  with  a  bundle  of  clothes, 
which  Gawtrey,  who  always  regained  his  elasticity  of 
spirit  wherever  there  was  fair  play  to  his  talents,  ex- 
amined with  great  attention,  and  many  exclamations  of 
"  Bon,  c'est  ^a." 

"  I  have  done  well  with  the  Jew,"  said  Birnie,  draw- 
ing from  his  coat  pocket  two  heavy  bags  ;  "  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  Napoleons.  We  shall  commence  with 
a  good  capital." 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend,"  said  Gawtrey. 

The  serrurier  was  then  despatched  to  the  best  restau- 
rant in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  three  adventurers 
made  a  less  Socratic  dinner  than  might  have  been  ex* 
pected. 


226  NIGHT   AND    MORNING 


CHAPTER  VI. 


"  Then  out  again  he  flies  to  wing  his  mazy  round." 

Thomson:  Castle  of  Indolence, 

"  Again  he  gazed :  '  It  is,'  said  he,  '  the  same  ; 
There  sits  he  upright  in  his  seat  secure, 
As  one  whose  conscience  is  correct  and  pure.' " 

Crabbb. 

The  adventurers  arrived  at  Tours,  and  established 
themselves  there  in  a  lodging,  without  any  incident 
w^orth  narrating  by  the  way. 

At  Tours,  Morton  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  his 
pleasure  and  enjoy  himself.  He  passed  for  a  young 
heir ;  Gawtrey  for  his  tutor — a  doctor  in  divinity  ;  Bir- 
nie  for  his  valet.  The  task  of  maintenance  fell  on  Gaw- 
trey, who  hit  off  his  character  to  a  hair ;  larded  his  grave 
jokes  with  University  scraps  of  Latin ;  looked  big  and 
well-fed ;  wore  knee-breeches  and  a  shovel-hat ;  and 
played  whist  with  the  skill  of  a  veteran  vicar.  By  his 
art  in  that  game,  he  made,  at  first,  enough,  at  least,  to 
defray  their  weekly  expenses.  But,  by  degrees,  the 
good  people  at  Tours,  who,  under  pretence  of  health, 
were  there  for  economy,  grew  shy  of  so  excellent  a 
player;  and,  though  Gawtrey  always  swore  solemnly 
that  he  played  with  the  most  scrupulous  honour  (an  as- 
severation which  Morton,  at  least,  implicitly  believed), 
and  no  proof  to  the  contrary  was  ever  detected,  yet  a 
first-rate  card-player  is  always  a  suspicious  character, 
unless  the  losing  parties  know  exactly  who  he  is.  The 
market  fell  off,  and  Gawtrey  at  length  thought  it  pru- 
dent to  extend  their  travels. 

"  Ah !"  said  Mr.  Gawtrey,  "  the  world  nowadays  has 
grown  so  ostentatious,  that  one  cannot  travel  advanta- 
geously without  a  post  character  and  four  liorscs."  At 
length  they  found  themselves  at  Milan,  which  at  that 
time  was  one  of  the  Kl  Dorados  for  gamesters.  Here, 
however,  for  want  of  introductions,  Mr.  Gawtrey  found 
it  difficult  to  get  into  society.  The  nobles,  proud  and 
rich,  played  high,  but  were  circumspect  in  their  compa- 
ny ;  the  bourgcoisc,  industrious  and  energetic,  preserved 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  227 

much  of  the  old  Lombard  shrewdness :  there  were  no 
table  d'hotcs  and  public  reunions.  Gawtrey  saw  his  lit- 
tle capital  daily  diminishing,  with  the  Alps  at  the  rear, 
and  Poverty  in  the  van.  At  lengtli,  always  on  the  qui 
five,  he  contrived  to  make  acquaintance  with  a  Scotch 
^  family  of  great  respectability.  He  effected  this  by 
picking  up  a  snuffbox  which  the  Scotchman  had  dropped 
in  taking  out  his  handkerchief.  This  politeness  paved 
the  way  to  a  conversation,  in  which  Gawtrey  made 
himself  so  agreeable,  and  talked  with  such  zest  of  the 
modem  Athens,  and  the  tricks  practised  upon  travel- 
lers, that  he  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Macgregor ;  cards 
were  interchanged  ;  and,  as  Mr.  Gawtrey  lived  in  toler- 
able style,  the  Macgregors  pronounced  him  "  a  vara 
genteel  mon."  Once  in  the  house  of  a  respectable 
person,  Gawtrey  contrived  to  turn  himself  round  and 
round,  till  he  burrowed  a  hole  into  the  English  circle 
then  settled  at  Milan.  His  whist-playing  came  into 
requisition,  and  once  more  Fortune  smiled  upon  Skill. 

To  this  house  the  pupil  one  evening  accompanied  the 
tutor.  When  the  whist-party,  consisting  of  two  tables, 
was  formed,  the  young  man  found  himself  left  out  with 
an  old  gentleman,  who  seemed  loquacious  and  good-na- 
tured, and  who  put  many  questions  to  Morton  which  he 
found  it  difficult  to  answer.  One  of  the  whist-tables 
was  now  in  a  state  of  revolution,  viz.,  a  lady  had  cut 
out,  and  a  gentleman  cut  in,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Lord  Lilbunie  was  announced. 

Mr.  Macgregor,  rising,  advanced  with  great  respect 
to  this  personage. 

"  I  scarcely  ventured  to  hope  you  would  coom,  Lord 
Lilburne,  the  night  is  so  cold." 

"  You  did  not  allow  sufficiently,  then,  for  the  dulness 
of  my  solitary  inn  and  the  attractions  of  your  circle. 
Aha  !  whist,  I  see." 

"You  play  soometimesV' 

"  Very  seldom  now  ;  I  have  sown  all  my  wild  oats, 
and  even  the  ace  of  spades  can  scarcely  dig  them  out 
again." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  vara  gude.' 

"  I  will  look  on ;"  and  Lord  Lilbunie  drew  his  chair 
to  the  table,  exactly  opposite  to  Mr.  Gawtrey. 

The  old  gentleman  turned  to  Pliilip. 

"  An  extraordinary  man,  Lord  Lilbunie  ;  you  have 
heard  of  him,  of  course  V 


288  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

'*  No,  indeed  ;  what  of  him  V  asked  the  young  man, 
rousing  himself. 

"  What  of  him  T"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
smile  ;  "  why,  the  newspapers,  if  you  ever  read  them, 
will  tell  you  enough  of  the  elegant,  the  witty  Lord  Lil- 
bume ;  a  man  of  eminent  talent,  tliough  indolent.  He 
was  wild  in  his  youth,  as  clever  men  often  are ;  but, 
on  attaining  his  title  and  fortune,  and  marrying  into 
the  family  of  the  then  premier,  he  became  more  sedate. 
They  say  he  might  make  a  great  figure  in  politics  if  he 
would.  He  has  a  very  high  reputation — very.  People 
do  say  he  is  still  fond  of  pleasure  ;  but  that  is  a  com- 
mon failing  among  the  aristocracy.  Morality  is  only 
found  in  the  middling  classes,  young  gentleman.  It  is 
a  lucky  family,  that  of  Lilburne  ;  his  sister,  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort—" 

"  Beaufort !"  exclaimed  Morton ;  and  then  muttered  to 
himself,  "  Ah,  true — true,  I  have  heard  the  name  of  Lil- 
burne before." 

"  Do  you  know  the  Beauforts  1  Well,  you  remember 
how  luckily  Robert,  Lilburne's  brother-in-law,  came 
into  that  fine  property  just  as  his  predecessor  was  about 
to  marry  a — " 

Morton  scowled  at  his  garrulous  acquaintance,  and 
stalked  abruptly  to  the  card-table. 

Ever  since  Lord  Lilburne  had  seated  himself  opposite 
to  Mr.  Gawtrey,  that  gentleman  had  evinced  a  perturba- 
tion of  manner  that  became  obvious  to  the  company. 
He  grew  deadly  pale  ;  his  hands  trembled ;  he  moved 
uneasily  in  his  seat ;  he  missed  deal ;  he  trumped  his 
partner's  best  diamond ;  finally  he  revoked,  threw  down 
his  money,  and  said,  with  a  forced  sipiile,  "  That  the  heat 
of  the  room  overcame  him."  As  he  rose.  Lord  Ijilburne 
rose  also,  and  the  eyes  of  both  met.  Those  of  Lilburne 
were  calm,  but  penetrating  and  inquisitive  in  their  gaze  ; 
those  of  Gawtrey  were  hke  balls  of  fire.  He  seemed 
gradually  to  dilate  in  his  height,  his  broad  phest  expand- 
ed, he  breathed  hard. 

"  Ah,  doctor,"  said  Mr,  Macgrcgor,  "  let  me  introduce 
you  to  Lord  Lilburne." 

The  peer  bowed  haughtily ;  Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not  rcr 
turn  the  salutation,  but  with  a  sort  of  gulp,  as  if  he  were 
swallowing  some  burst  of  passion,  strode  to  the  fire  ; 
and  then,  turning  round,  again  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the 
new  guest.     Jjilburne,  however,  who  had  ncvgr  lost  hi§ 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  229 

self-composure  at  this  strange  rudeness,  was  now  quiet- 
ly talking  with  their  host. 

"  Your  doctor  seems  an  eccentric  man — a  little  absent 
— learned,  I  suppose.     Have  you  been  to  Como  yet  ]" 

Mr.  Gawtrey  remained  by  the  fire,  beating  the  devil's 
tattoo  upon  the  chimney-piece,  and  ever  and  anon  turn- 
ing his  glance  towards  Lilburne,  who  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  his  existence. 

Both  these  guests  stayed  tiU  the  party  broke  up,  Mr. 
Gawtrey  apparently  wishing  to  outstay  Lord  Lilburne  ; 
for,  when  the  last  went  down  stairs,  Mr.  Gawtrey,  nod- 
ding to  his  comrade,  and  giving  a  hurried  bow  to  the  host, 
descended  also.  As  they  passed  the  porter's  lodge,  they 
found  Lilburne  on  the  step  of  his  carriage ;  he  turned 
his  head  abruptly,  and  again  met  Mr.  Gawtrey's  eyes ; 
paused  a  moment,  and  whispered  over  his  shoulder, 

"  So  we  remember  each  other,  sir  1  Let  us  not  meet 
again ;  and,  on  that  condition,  bygones  are  bygones." 

"  Scoimdrel !"  muttered  Gawtrey,  clinching  his  fists  ; 
but  the  peer  had  sprung  into  his  carriage  with  a  hghtness 
scarcely  to  be  expected  from  his  lameness,  and  the 
wheels  whirled  within  an  inch  of  the  soi  disant  doctor's 
right  pump. 

Gawtrey  walked  on  for  some  moments  in  great  ex- 
citement ;  at  length  he  turned  to  his  companion  : 

"  Do  you  guess  who  Lord  Lilburne  is !  I  wiU  tell 
you  :  my  first  foe,  and  Fanny's  grandfather !  Now  note 
the  justice  of  Fate.  Here  is  this  man — mark  well — this 
man,  who  commenced  life  by  putting  his  faults  on  my 
own  shoulders  ! — from  that  little  boss  has  fungused  out 
a  terrible  hump — this  man,  who  seduced  my  affianced 
bride,  and  then  left  her  whole  soul,  once  fair  and  bloom- 
ing— I  swear  it — with  its  leaves  fresh  from  the  dews  of 
Heaven,  one  rank  leprosy — this  man,  who,  rolling  in 
riches,  learned  to  cheat  and  pilfer  as  a  boy  learns  to 
dance  and  play  the  fiddle,  and  (to  damn  me,  whose  hap- 
piness he  had  blasted)  accused  me  to  the  world  of  his 
own  crime  ! — here  is  this  man,  who  has  not  left  off  one 
vice,  but  added  to  those  of  his  youth  the  bloodless  craft 
of  the  veteran  knave — here  is  this  man,  flattered,  court- 
ed, great,  marching  tlu'ough  lanes  of  bowing  parasites  to 
an  illustrious  epitaph  and  a  marble  tomb  :  and  I,  a  rogue 
too,  if  you  will,  but  rogue  for  my  bread,  dating  from  him 
my  errors  and  my  ruin !  I — vagabond — outcast — skulk- 
ing through  tricks  to  avoid  crime — why  the  difference  1 

Vol.  L— U 


230  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Because  one  is  born  rich  and  the  other  poor ;  because 
he  has  no  excuse  for  crime,  and,  therefore,  no  one  sus- 
pects him !" 

The  wretched  man  (for  at  that  moment  he  was  wretch- 
ed) paused  breathless  from  this  passionate  and  rapid 
burst ;  and  before  him  rose  in  its  marble  majesty,  with 
the  moon  full  upon  its  shining  spires,  the  wonder  of 
Gothic  Italy — the  Cathedral  Church  of  Milan. 

"  Chafe  not  yourself  at  the  universal  fate,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips,  and  pointing 
to  the  Cathedral ;  "  I  have  not  lived  long,  but  I  have 
learned  already  enough  to  know  this  :  he  who  could 
raise  a  pile  like  that,  dedicated  to  Heaven,  would  be  hon- 
oured as  a  saint ;  he  who  knelt  to  God  by  the  roadside 
under  a  hedge  would  be  sent  to  the  house  of  correction 
as  a  vagabond  !  The  difference  between  man  and  man 
is  money,  and  will  be,  when  you,  the  despised  charlatan, 
and  Lilburne,  the  honoured  cheat,  have  not  left  as  much 
dust  behind  you  as  will  fill  a  snuffbox.  Comfort  your- 
self ;  you  are  in  the  majority," 


CHAPTER  VH. 

"  A  desert  wild 
Before  them  stretch'd  bare,  comfortless,  and  vast, 
With  gibbets,  bones,  and  carcasses  defiled." 

TuoM.'iON  ;  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not  wish  to  give  his  foe  the  triumph 
of  thinking  he  had  driven  him  from  Milan  ;  he  resolved 
to  stay  and  brave  it  out ;  but  when  he  appeared  in  pub- 
lic, he  found  the  acquaintances  he  had  formed  bow  po- 
litely, but  cross  to  the  other  side  of  the  w^ay.  No  more 
invitations  to  tea  and  cards  showered  in  upon  the  jolly 
parson.  He  was  puzzled  ;  for  people,  while  they  shun- 
ned him,  did  not  appear  uncivil.  He  found  out,  at  last, 
that  a  report  was  circulated  that  he  was  deranged  ; 
though  he  could  not  trace  this  rumour  to  Lord  Lilburne, 
he  was  at  no  loss  to  guess  from  whom  it  had  emanated. 
His  own  eccentricities,  especially  his  recent  manner 
at  Mr.  Macgregor's,  gave  confirmation  to  the  charge. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  231 

Again  the  funds  began  to  sink  low  in  the  canvass  bags, 
and  at  length,  in  despair,  Mr.  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to 
quit  the  field.  They  returned  to  France  through  Switz- 
erland— a  country  too  poor  for  gamesters ;  and,  ever 
since  the  interview  with  Lilburne,  a  great  change  had 
come  over  Gawtrey's  gay  spirit :  he  grew  moody  and 
thoughtful ;  he  took  no  pains  to  replenish  the  common 
stock ;  he  talked  much  and  seriously  to  his  young  friend 
of  poor  Fanny,  and  owned  that  he  yearned  to  see  her 
again.  The  desire  to  return  to  Paris  haunted  him  like 
a  fatality ;  he  saw  the  danger  that  awaited  him  there, 
but  it  only  allured  him  the  more,  as  the  candle  that  has 
singed  its  wings  does  the  moth.  Birnie,  who,  in  all 
their  vicissitudes  and  wanderings,  their  ups  and  downs, 
retained  the  same  tacit,  immoveable  demeanour,  re- 
ceived with  a  sneer  the  orders  at  last  to  march  back 
upon  the  French  capital.  "  You  would  never  have  left 
it  if  you  had  taken  my  advice,"  he  said,  and  quitted  the 
room. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  gazed  after  him  and  muttered,  "  Is  the 
die  then  cast  1" 

"  What  does  he  mean  V  said  Morton. 

"  You  will  know  soon,"  replied  Gawtrey,  and  he  fol- 
lowed Birnie  ;  and  from  that  time,  the  whispered  con- 
ferences with  that  person,  which  had  seemed  suspended 
during  their  travels,  were  renewed. 


One  morning,  three  men  were  seen  entering  Paris  on 
foot  through  the  Porte  St.  Denis.  It  was  a  fine  day  in 
spring,  and  the  old  city  looked  gay  with  its  loitering 
passengers  and  gaudy  shops,  and  under  that  clear,  blue, 
exhilarating  sky  so  peculiar  to  France. 

Two  of  these  men  walked  abreast,  the  other  preceded 
them  a  few  steps.  The  one  who  went  first — thin,  pale, 
and  threadbare — yet  seemed  to  suffer  the  least  from  fa- 
tigue ;  he  walked  with  a  long,  swinging,  noiseless  stride, 
looking  to  the  right  and  left  from  the  corners  of  his 
eyes.  Of  the  two  who  followed,  one  was  handsome 
and  finely  formed,  but  of  a  swarthy  complexion  ;  young, 
yet  with  a  look  of  care  ;  the  other,  of  a  sturdy  frame, 
leaned  on  a  thick  stick,  and  his  eyes  were  gloomily  cast 
down. 

"  Philip,"  said  the  last,  "  in  coming  back  to  Paris,  I 
feel  that  I  am  coming  back  to  my  grave  !'* 


232  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Pooh  !  you  were  equally  despondent  in  our  excur-= 
sions  elsewhere." 

"  Because  I  was  always  thinking  of  poor  Fanny,  and 
because — because — Bimie  was  ever  at  me  with  his  hor- 
rible temptations !" 

"  Bimie  !  I  loathe  the  man !  Will  you  neVfer  get  rid 
of  him  1" 

"  I  cannot !  Hush !  he  will  hear  us  !  How  unlucky 
we  have  been  !  and  now,  without  a  sous  in  our  pockets 
' — here  the  dunghill,  there  the  jail !  We  are  in  his  pmver 
at  last  /" 

"  His  power !    What  mean  you  t" 

"  What,  ho  !  Bimie  !"  cried  Gawtrey,  ujiheeding  Mor- 
ton's question,  "  let  us  halt  and  breakfast :  I  am  tired." 

"  You  forget !  we  have  no  money  till  we  make  it !" 
returned  Birnie,  coldly.  "  Come  to  the  serrurier''s—iie 
will  trust  us !" 


BHD   or  VOL.   I. 


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